


LOVE ME, PLEASE?

by thewellrestedone



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Also hot tub full of Famouses, And Harry producing a lot of meals, But in a good way...a cool way, Explicit Sexual Content, Gryles, Humor, M/M, Ping Pong, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewellrestedone/pseuds/thewellrestedone
Summary: Harry Styles and Nick Grimshaw have an unexpected weekend alone in New York City. Harry seems to want to work things out between them, but Nick’s not convinced that’s such a good plan.





	1. Once Upon A Plane

_I can resist everything except temptation.   Oscar Wilde_

Nick’s clinging theatrically to the ‘oh shit’ handle on the passenger side, wailing at top volume about his dogs being orphaned and him wanting to live ’til next Glasto. The car lurches to a stop at the Departures kerb of Heathrow Terminal 5.

“Idiot,” Pixie teases affectionately from the rear seat, unbothered, already stepping out of the car and opening Nick’s door for him.

Nick leans in and gives Alexa a quick hug. “You’ve got loads better since last time,” he assures her, shaking his head in wide-eyed contradiction.

Alexa blithely ignores him. “Good luck, darling! You’ll smash it. Not a word secondhand now, promise.”

“I promise. All major updates strictly via group chat.”

Pixie’s waiting at the kerb, Nick’s luggage already hauled out for him.

“This is going to happen for you, Nicky, I know it. Just believe in yourself, all right?”

“Thanks, Pix,” Nick says sincerely, then stage whispers like he doesn’t want Alexa to overhear, making a great show of hiding his mouth behind the back of his hand. “Get the keys off her.”

Pixie grins and slides into the passenger seat.

“Tell my babies Daddy loves them! Show them videos of me so they don’t forget. And send loads of photos. Remember no wet food for Stinky or you’ll regret it, new rug’s not on me, and don’t forget Pig’s vitamins.”

The girls call assurances as Nick anxiously pats himself down for his iPhone and passport. It’s almost become a tic at this point. He fights the sudden urge to crawl back into the relative safety of Alexa’s new Evoque and onto Pixie's lap.

“Ta girls! Thanks for the lift. Mwah! Mwah!”

Nick gathers his luggage, not any easy feat, and turns towards the terminal. He loathes packing for travel. He hates the finality of making choices and anticipates regret each time he sets something aside, so he’s not packed light this trip, one of the many privileges of First Class, which he flies less than he’d rather but has solid plans to become more well accustomed.

Expedited security check-in is another perk with Nick’s stamp of approval. Three or four curious stares of recognition, a couple of blessedly brief encounters with fans, photos politely declined, thank you, two anxiously knocked-back vodka tonics in the relative sanctuary of British Airways Galleries First lounge and not quite an hour and fifteen later, Nick stows his luggage overhead and settles into his seat. Wide. Deep. It’ll do quite well for a Grimshaw, he thinks. He eyes the empty aisle seat beside him dubiously and hopes he doesn’t have someone with a digestive ailment sat next to him again, or stale breath or body odour, or maybe worse, even, a humourless non-stop chatterer that Nick's expected to entertain. Ever prepared, Nick rummages in his Louis Vuitton holdall and pulls out his earbuds and his black satin sleep mask, the one with the fuzzy little white sheep jumping rainbows embroidered on it. Maybe he can sleep through the eight hours, ward off the potential advances of his neighbour, his nerves and jet lag all in one go. He’s messing about with the elastics on his mask, worrying at a fray that wasn’t there last time he paid attention, and he’s willing to bet his house that Stinky Blob’s DNA is on those tattered strings. Nick’s long since learnt that Stinky only ever feigns innocence. Stinky is a little poo-shaped monster who Nick suspects of always setting poor sweet Pig Dog up to take the fall. Stinky’s a nefarious little-

“Nick?”

Nick’s head whiplashes up and he feels the involuntary serotonin rush he always gets when he sees Harry for the first time after even a short while apart. He also feels uneasy at this surprise, in this cramped and public space which in a very few minutes will have no non-lethal escape route available to him, should he decide escaping’s in his interests. Nick’s a bit of an escape artist, isn’t he, disappearing from dull meetings and dull parties and dull relationships with no notice to anyone but himself. It’s one of his go-to coping mechanisms, he’s learnt. Something wary shifts inside him, a feeling not quite new but still more unaccustomed than not, this vague uneasiness with the very person who used to make him feel the most comfortable in all the world. It takes him several beats too long to process all this and speak, and the voice in his head is imploring himself, as always, to please, please, _please_ say something both fabulously cool and clever.

”Harry!” he bleats.

Oh, well done, me, he thinks, clever as ever. He half-rises from his seat to meet Harry’s awkward lean-in and one-armed hug, gets clubbed in the head by Harry’s shifting shoulder satchel for his effort, not to mention left awash in the sweet stench of Italian leather and Tom Ford and Nick's own memories.

“What’re you doing here?” Harry asks, which…fair question.

“What’re _you_ doing here? You’re in LA.” Also a fair question.

Two late-boarding passengers are now queued impatiently in the aisle behind Harry, and Harry glances uneasily back over his shoulder. Nick knows Harry’d rather go unnoticed than not. Harry settles his satchel back onto his shoulder, adjusts the brim of his hat lower on his brow.

“Um, I need to have a seat. Later?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Sure. See ya, then.”

Nick settles back into his seat and pushes his call button, suddenly in dire need of another vodka. Drinks before wheels up, another perk of First Class which Nick approves. He’s waiting for his drink when a man, the last to board and a business traveler from the looks of him, less chance of a mind-numbing chin wag than with a tourist, so that’s well enough, stows a bag and briefcase overhead and takes the seat next to Nick, actively avoids making eye contact and immediately opens a micro-thin laptop. Not a chin wagger then, his loss, Nick thinks, as he’s sat next to one of the greatest conversationalists in all of England, at least according to some circles, albeit increasingly small circles, but it’s been said. Nick sips at his drink, then up-ends it, thinking about Harry sitting somewhere behind him, closer than they’ve been in months. He surreptitiously reads over his neighbour’s shoulder, loses interest as soon as he realises it’s some sort of legal document, dead boring.

At 35,000 feet, the stewardess makes the long-awaited announcement and Nick anxiously thumbs at his mobile again and, thank fuck, the GoGo Inflight link to WiFi is finally up. Nick’s already checked for it about a hundred times. The plane’s not the biggest or most posh of aircrafts but at least it has WiFi, one of the few international British Airways flights that does. Nick’s researched and booked his flight accordingly. He’s not going eight or more waking hours without internet access, without the non-stop, often inane but ever-entertaining companionship of his friends and his social media, at least not willingly. He’s rather shamelessly addicted to his phone full of pocket friends, to instant gratification and near constant internet affirmation, but then again, who’s he know these days that isn’t? Half his friends are pulling side income from their socials, and Nick’s not averse to easy income, is he?

Nick quickly checks his notifications before he scrolls down his text messages, scrolls and scrolls and scrolls way, way, way down to find his conversation with Harry, the last random message sent by him to Harry more than several months ago and never returned. His thumbs hover over the keys, he’s wondering what to type, false starts more than a few times and backspaces, still searching for something both cool and clever, stalling for so long whilst trying to think up just the right thing to say that, in the end, it’s Harry who makes the rare first move.

_Hey._

_**hiya** _

_The lady next to me won’t trade seats. Ask your guy. I’m window._

Nick sizes up his neighbour, who’s still engrossed in his contract. Nick’s as charming as ever, polite about it, introduces himself and everything, makes the ask and gets shut down like it’s Friday night back at Uni.

_**he’s not having it** _

Nick’s typing when he sees more dots appear, so he pauses. He watches the dots for so long that he thinks Harry must be back there writing a book, remembers he’s heard that if you stop typing when you see someone else typing, you’re a bottom. That’s, whatever, that’s fine, but Nick quickly texts a random period, just to prove he can.

**_._ **

_Start coughing._

Nick snorts. Not so much a book, then, as a Post-it.

_**?** _

_Start Coughing!_

Behind him, Nick hears Harry cough, low and hoarse and somehow distinctively Harry. He’s pretty certain he’d know Harry’s voice anywhere, talking and singing, of course, but also coughing, snoring, even vomming, given he and Harry spent a good bit of 2000’s 12 and 13 absolutely legless, and Nick’s flat’s smelt of Harry’s sick more often than he cares to remember. Nick doesn’t know what Harry’s on about, but he coughs obligingly, if a little half-heartedly.

**_i don’t know morse cough code if that’s your great plan_**

**_and also we can just text?_ **

Behind him, Harry coughs again, much more emphatically, like he’s trying to hack up a hairball.

_COUGH!_

“Ahem, ahem,” Nick coughs tepidly, his face turned politely into his bicep. Behind him, Harry sounds like Stinky Blob did that time he ate the dandelion and Nick thought he was going to have to give him a tracheostomy with the straw from his iced coffee right there in Clissold Park. Nick fights the urge to snicker, converts his snort at the last second into a garbled throat-clearing retch.

Like Nick’s cough is some kind of weird mating call, Harry’s suddenly stood in the aisle at the end of Nick’s row, looming, tall and polite, but with customary disregard for anyone else’s sense of personal space.

“Excuse me, sir,” Harry says to Nick’s solicitor, leaning in. Harry coughs wetly, barely gets his hand to his mouth in time to cover it, then wipes his hand methodically on his thigh. “I’m sorry to disturb, but I was wondering…” Harry is seized with yet another deep, hacking cough. “I was wondering if we could possibly switch seats. My friend here,” he nods towards Nick “and I, we both have the Mallorcan lurgy, bit of an outbreak of it, you may have read, dreadful, and, any road, my friend here’s the one’s got all our medicine in his bag, and the doctor at the A&E, she said we’re not contagious anymore, most likely, but I’m feeling a little woozy and-” Harry coughs again dramatically, adds a deep sniffle into the mix, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and Nick, finally catching on, joins in at the chorus like he’s got a pube tangled around his tonsils. He can see a few heads peering over their seatbacks to see what the commotion’s about, and a steward is hovering worriedly behind Harry in the aisle, holding a box of miniature British Airways branded tissues and a sick bag. Harry leans back just enough for the man to snap his laptop shut and scamper out of the seat. Harry grins delightedly and slips into the seat beside Nick, not bothering with his seatbelt, immediately reclining his seatback to precisely match the tilt of Nick’s. He rolls his head toward Nick, beaming, and for a second Nick thinks the overhead reading light’s come on, but no, it’s just Harry and the odd glow he sometimes emits, like a human firefly.

“Hello, Nick.”

“Hiya, Harry.”

“Y’alright?”

“Yeah. Good, good. You? Other than the Mallorcan lurgy?”

“I’m well, thank you. I-” Harry lurches towards Nick, hugs him again, uses both arms, and the hug is more fierce this time than awkward, and Nick’s the fly and Harry’s the spider and the web feels disconcertingly like home. “It’s great to see you, Nick.”

Nick is torn. Eight hours with Harry is an undeniably better prospect than he had just an hour ago. Sitting next to a chatterer when the chatterer is Harry is a more than okay thing, and Harry is anything but humourless. And, Harry’s puffs Nick’s long since got used to. All those greens make Harry a walking compost half the time, and not that many know it, but Harry’s arse is so tight he can fart a rising half scale like some people do burps, a party trick Harry thankfully reserves for very drunk friends and intimate family gatherings.

Well, this reverie’s digressed badly, Nick thinks. Still, it’s distracting him from focusing on that uneasy something, the uneasy something twisting in his gut that he’s trying to identify and dispel like his therapist’s been teaching him to do. It feels like…resentment? Which is why when Nick goes to say that it’s great to see Harry too, what comes out instead is

“Didn’t know you were home.”

Harry sits back a little and has the decency to look sheepish.

“It was just a couple days, for work. If it was longer, I’d’ve-”

“Yeah yeah yeah. S’okay. Busy busy business. ’s good to see you, even by accident. Been a little while.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to the States either.” There’s a gentle admonishment in Harry’s tone, just enough to point out that the failure to keep each other's diaries up-to-date was mutual.

The stewardess makes her rounds, passes out hygienically sealed travel blankets and pillows, takes Harry’s drink order.

“Yes, please. I’ll have a double tequila, Casamigos if you have it, whatever’s available, if not. Slice of lime, slice of orange, rocks, no mix. Thank you. What’s your name? Bethany. Hi. I’m Harry. This is my friend Nick.”

“Hiya, Bethany.”

Harry dismisses her once she’s brought his drink, but he does it so well, Nick thinks.

“Thank you, Bethany. This is lovely. We’ll just put the call light on if we need anything else, otherwise please don’t be bothered to check on us. Have a nice flight, Bethany. Thank you.”

Harry sips at his drink, burrows under his travel blanket, looks Nick in the eye and repeats himself, only this time there’s no censure in his tone, only interest.

“You didn’t tell me you’d be in the States.”

Nick opens the bag and shrugs to get underneath his own blanket even though he isn’t cold. It’s a comforting layer of protection and he feels like he needs both, comfort and protection, but he’s got little hope a lap robe will ease the particular kind of uneasiness he’s feeling.

Nick looks at Harry impassively, not sure he wants to confide in him, at least not just yet. There’s a lot of ocean to cover, hours and hours of ocean, and him and Harry, well, him and Harry haven’t exactly talked that much, haven’t been in the habit of confiding everything in each other for a while now, definitely not since Mesh, and maybe not since even before Mesh, if Nick’s being honest. The shift has been so subtle, so gradual, that it’s hard to pin down, even when given a lot of thought, which it has, been given, that is, by Nick at least.

Harry, ever a pro at skirting conflict, so much so that Nick’s often wished he had Harry’s skills at self-preservation, smoothly changes tacks.

“Been listening to the show when I can. It’s good. It’s really come together. How’re you liking afternoons now that it’s been a while?”

Nick sees no reason to lie to Harry and he knows he’s got no real shot at keeping up an aloof distance either, not across an ocean and certainly not across the half-metre and narrow seat partition that are the only things separating them now, not with Harry sat right there and Harry’s knee already resting companionably against his and Harry’s undivided attention on him for the moment. Nick closes his eyes and rests his head against the airline pillow and allows himself to sound weary.

“Drivetime’s rubbish. I mean, it’s dead nice lying in past five, I’m liking that part, and I can have a semi-normal night life again, right, when I’m up for it, which isn’t as often as it used to be. Any road, I like being sat at home with my dogs most nights, but afternoon’s a step down, careerwise, let’s call it what it is, and-”

_“It’s not.”_

Harry’s protest is obligatory, under the known circumstances, and Nick stares him down.

“What it is, right, is a step down, to save everyone face. Breakfast was bleeding listeners and had to be saved from me, didn’t it? And now Drivetime’s down too and Greg’s up almost 300,000 on Breakfast, and it sucks and I suck and-"

“You don’t suck.” Harry’s very earnest. “England _loves_ you.”

Nick’s laugh is too loud for the confined space. “National treasure, me. The People’s Ponce.”

Harry’s laughing too now, gives Nick a little punch in the shoulder. “Stop it. Just because it came out sounding daft doesn’t make it not true.”

“Thanks. The point is…I hate it, and I thought I could not hate it, put my head down and have a good attitude about it, been doing therapy, haven’t I? And I mean, it’s a good gig, all things considered. I shouldn’t have anything to whinge about, and I don't want to be that twat with a dead nice life who's always complaining, but turns out I kind of…sort of…really do hate it?”

“Nick.”

Nick feels Harry’s hand fumble its way underneath his blanket, feels Harry’s long fingers wrap around his forearm, consoling him, and something that’s been wound up inside him loosens just a little. His body doesn’t move, not an inch, but deep inside, he leans into Harry’s touch, his warmth, his familiarity. Still. Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” Harry tells him, so very sweetly, so very sincerely, that Nick feels cared for, not pitied. Nick hates to be pitied by anyone other than himself, and he’s really been trying to keep those parties to a minimum lately.

Despite his whinging, Nick feels a rush of excitement, the almost perfectly kept secret he’s been hoarding for what seems like ages suddenly bubbles up in him like fizzy drink.

“S’alright. Fuck Plan A. And fuck Plan B, for that matter. And fuck all Plans BBC. That’s what’s got me here, innit, all posh-like, traveling First Class with Famouses courtesy of Netflix.”

Harry’s hand is still stroking his forearm, gently tugging at the hairs there, and Nick doesn’t hate it. He’s imagined this moment, hasn't he, how he’d tell Harry about his plans, imagined it happening over the phone, imagined it happening over a shared curry at his local, imagined it over breakfast in his kitchen and while walking his dogs and over Great British Bake Off reruns in his bed, imagined Harry being dazzled and impressed and supportive of him, but he’s not imagined it hunched under borrowed blankets on British Airways, suspended somewhere over the Atlantic.

“Netflix?”

“I have a meeting with them. In New York. Plan C.”

Harry’s sat straight up now, turned sideways in his seat, and one foot makes its way into Nick’s footwell and loops over Nick’s ankle, knobby and weighty and familiar.

“Shut up.”

“It’s true. I mean, the afternoon show’s gone to crap. And Mesh-”

“I was sorry to hear about Mesh. Sorry to _read_ about Mesh,” Harry emphasises, a bit of censure in his tone again, apparently hurt not to have heard it from Nick himself.

“You hate Mesh.”

“I do not hate Mesh.”

“You hated me being with Mesh, then.”

“He was too young for you.”

“He’s very mature!” Nick lies. Mature is Nick’s codeword for being fit and bendy and not too mind-numbingly dull and presentable enough to introduce to his friends and, most importantly, being interested in fucking Nick for more’n a week or two whilst also being young.

“He’s younger’n me! A lot younger. And you were always on about being older’n me. Always. On and on and on and-”

“Whatever. Irrelevant now, innit?”

“You were in love with Mesh.” It’s almost a mumble, as if Harry hates acknowledging it.

“Yeah…I was,” Nick sighs. “Felt like, for a while. Finally got me over you, though, didn’t it? Silver lining to everything, I reckon.”

Harry abruptly lets go of Nick’s arm, reaches up and presses the overhead call light.

“Hello again, Bethany. May I have another double tequila? Slice of lime, slice of orange, rocks, no mix. Nicholas?”

“Vodka tonic, please.”

“Also a double,” Harry adds.

They share a comfortable silence while waiting for their drinks, at least Nick thinks it’s a comfortable silence, hopes so, but one can never be sure with Harry, and no silence is ever all that comfortable for Nick, he’s always wanting to break them, so as soon as their drinks arrive, he does.

“Cheers, mate! So, what it is, right, is I’m pretty sure I’m about to be made redundant. My nuts’re in my throat every time Big Boss Ben wants to see me. I broke up with the possible love of my life, my first proper boyfriend in ages, for mostly no reason and, not unrelated, have gone quite unintentionally celibate since. Can’t give it away. And now I’m trapped here for ages in this flying tin of kippers with the most annoying human being in the known universe.”

Nick’s good with vocal inflection and he’s quite certain his has been sufficiently droll and self-deprecating but, still, Harry almost flinches, somewhere around the ‘love of my life’ part if Nick’s not mistaken, and there’s no companionable ankle-holding happening in Nick’s footwell any longer and Nick’s ankles are inexplicably cold.

“Why’re you meeting with Netflix?”

Nick swivels in his seat to face him, his eyes bright, grin wide. If there’s one thing he loves more than having a secret, it’s telling it.

“You can’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“C’mon,” Harry huffs, insulted.

“All right, all right. Of course. It’s just…I’ve had this idea brewing for a while, Plan C, like I said, for what happens after Radio.”

“You’re brilliant. Everyone loves you. You’ll host stuff, television and stuff-”

“‘cause the X Factor thing went so well. Wasn't total shite on Gogglebox at least.”

“Stop. You were terrific. So you'll do telly, and you’ll DJ, do gigs. You’ll be a social media influencer, a, what’s it called? A tastemaker. And you’re interested in production, and I’ve been giving that some thought, and-”

“Shut up, will you?”

Harry shuts up, his fingers plucking at his lower lip. He pulls one knee up underneath him, rests his cheek on his palm and waits.

“So. Yes, all of that, but me and the dogs, we like a comfortable life, right? And the thing is, on the production thing, I’ve been putting together this idea for a show, a series kind of thing, where I interview different artists, but all essentially on the same theme, so, like, episodes. And I know a lot of musicians, obviously, and artists and all sorts of other creatives, and-”

“That’s a brilliant idea!” Harry lightly punches his shoulder again, this time encouraging. “What’s the theme?”

“The separation of art from the artist.”

“Fuck. That really is brilliant. Provocative. Relevant. A bit risky.”

“You think?”

“You know it is! Will you do me? I want to do one.”

“Yeah? Sure! Sure. Of course. Be weird not to.”

“So you’re pitching it to Netflix?”

“I already did, and they’re interested, proper interested, and want to meet me. All top secret, of course, very cloak and dagger. Big Boss Ben would murder me. He likes things done on his terms and schedule, but what’s he going to do? Move me to Radio 3?” Nick snorts wryly, verges a little more towards bitter than he’s intended. “That’s probably exactly what he’s got up his sleeve.”

“I’m not doing Radio 3,” Harry refuses flatly.

 _“I’m_ not doing Radio 3! _”_ Nick protests, indignant. “Shame I can’t make a living flogging Gucci, live off me good looks, but that job’s taken. Earring’s nice on you.”

Harry’s hand materialises under Nick’s blanket again, trails down his bicep, down his forearm, circles his wrist, then slips, familiar fingers entwining, into his hand.

“This is massive. I’m proud of you, Nicholas, really proud.”

And there it is, the moment Nick’s imagined. He allows himself to savour it, squeezes Harry’s hand.

“Thank you.”

“When’s your meeting?”

“Monday afternoon.”

“So you have a few days.”

“A couple.”

“Do you have plans? Who’re you staying with?”

“I said top secret, didn’t I? I’m set up at the Mandarin Oriental. Netflix’s splashing out all that Queer Eye dosh on me.”

“Mandarin’s very nice. You should definitely stay at mine.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Do you need to check, I mean, is anyone…?”

Nick would rather Radio 3 than stay at Harry’s if _he’s_ there. It would be too awkward and Nick would die and never get rich off Netflix and poor Pig and Stinky would be orphaned and it just wouldn’t do.

“He’s not been there for a while.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” Harry chuckles.

Harry just looks at him, slow blinking in the dim blue cabin light, his hair barely ruffling in the forced air from the overhead fan. Nick chances the question.

“What was it like, dating in public, once everyone understood that’s what it was?”

“It was good. It was fine. I mean, it was kind of old news to be news anymore, wasn’t it? It’s not like I didn’t break it to them gently. And it was liberating, like everyone says, and I just go about my life now, just get on with it. It’s not that big a deal. I’m sure I lost some fans, but…”

Harry’s shrug says “Fuck ’em” even though he doesn’t say it out loud.

Now it’s Nick’s turn to snort. “Good. That’s good. Better late than never, I reckon.”

“I’m sorry, for all that.”

“I know. It’s nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

“I know. I was there. Don’t apologise.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was home.”

“Stop apologising. It’s okay. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’d be in New York.”

“So…you’ll stay at mine?”

Nick takes a minute to study him. Harry studies him back, clear-eyed and unblinking, no subtext Nick can detect.

“Sure. Yeah. Why not?”

Deep down inside, Nick knows perfectly well why not. His therapist says he’s crawled 19 3/4 metres out of a 20 metre deep hole, and he needn’t go sliding back into it now. No backsliding. Nick’s been there. Nick’s done that. Been there more than once. Done that more than twice. Never again, he’d sworn. “Fine!” Harry’d sworn back, slamming out of Nick’s flat. They’d made up eventually via text, as much as one can do, Nick supposes, but something, they both know but have never acknowledged out loud, had broken, a fracture in fine bone china, a weakness in the gold-plated armour of their friendship, perhaps irretrievably, but perhaps not, at least Nick hopes not. It’s painful to remember and to deal with now, the distance that’s spooled out between them.

The heavy feeling in Nick’s chest is back, the dreaded panicky feeling he sometimes gets that he’s drowning. His life starts to flash before his eyes, his Mum and Dad and Andy and Jane on Christmas morning, with him and Jane in matching Rudolph onesies, the exact instant he realised that Simon bloody Cowell was going to sack him, his poor sweet gone-too-soon Puppy running about in his garden, but before he lets himself sink too far, Nick does as his therapist’s taught him. He visualises himself kicking his way to the surface, kick, kick, kicking until he can breathe again. Self-care. Nick’s learning it, has got better at it lately, but he’s still just a student, far from a master, but still, he’s learning.

Nick tries not to look at Harry’s eyelashes, closed now on his cheek. He tries not to smell Harry’s hair, shorn short again, for fuck’s sake why? He tries not to trace the ridges of Harry’s fingertips underneath his travel blanket, familiar in the finest detail. He tries not to be a little scared because he’s missed him so fucking much and he tries not to miss him when he’s sat right here holding Nick’s hand.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

He can keep his cool for a few days, right? Keep his distance? Try to mend the friendship but not put his heart at risk again? Sure. Why not? Nick’s learnt to follow his brain, not his heart, because his heart’s apparently thick as a plank and not to be trusted. Nick tries to stave off the maniacal self-mocking laughter in his head, is somewhat successful, all things considered. He can. He will, he thinks firmly. Plan C covers more than just his career, after all. Plan C is a long term plan. Plan C is a lifetime plan. Plan C involves proper adulting. Plan C is about self-care. And Plan C has a safe compartment for Harry to fit in, just off centre stage, with well-built walls all around, so their friendship doesn’t encroach into every aspect of Nick’s life and feelings and decisions like it has for so many years. It’s been much discussed in Nick’s therapy, Harry’s new compartment. Nick’s done visualisation exercises about it, decorated it, even.

Harry’s eyes are still closed, his hand still in Nick’s, resting on Nick’s thigh. Harry yawns without covering his mouth, and Nick stares into the gaping maw, wonders how it’s possible for one relatively normal-sized human being’s open mouth to be approximately the size of Pig Dog’s whole head. Nick feels Harry’s fingertips stretch out, skate lightly over the flies of his jeans, the telltale corners of Harry’s lips barely tilting up, letting on that it’s intentional.

“I can hear you thinking,” Harry murmurs, his fingers skating back across Nick’s crotch. “Stop.”

Nick sighs, grasps Harry’s fingers more tightly in his own and firmly redirects them back to his thigh, the safe zone.

“I can hear _you_ thinking,” Nick says, “and _you_ stop.”

Beside him, Harry’s smirk deepens. Harry has a few things to learn about Plan C. Incorrigible, thinks Nick, every bit as bad as Stinky Blob, possibly worse, on account of the opposable thumbs. He tries not to be flattered. He hopes he’s packed more than skinny jeans, because he’s going to need more vodka, loads more vodka, to endure being around Harry for an entire weekend. Beside him, Harry begins to softly wheeze, asleep. Some things never change. Nick tries and fails to get his sleep mask on with his one free hand, finally manages to twist it around one ear to anchor it and inches it, by a multitude of tiny adjustments, down over his eyes. And if Harry wakes up before him and finds him looking like a ridiculous old queen? It’s nothing Harry hasn’t seen before and, any road, what does it matter?

Later, they watch a film and half of another, ignore a third but leave it on. They eat, and Nick enjoys his filet and veg medley while lamenting the poor souls expected to make do with a packet of peanuts or pretzels or biscuits in the back, he’s been there. They shuttle back and forth to the loo. They waffle on about nothing. Nick insists on trying on all Harry’s rings, declaring them, in turn,

“Utterly heinous. Make a proper weapon, this one. Gucci mafia. Could do with a set of initials, if you’re at loss for me birthday. Ah, this one’s a sentimental favourite. Remember the time that Puppy-"

“And we had to go through the garden and rinse poo in a colander for three days?” Harry remembers.

“And you made me soak it in Hendrick's and scrub it with a toothbrush? I used yours, by the way.”

Nick rummages curiously and without express permission or protest through Harry’s Gucci handbag, tries on Harry’s glasses, fiddles with his hair clip, uses his lip tint, ignores the slim book of Japanese poetry and Harry's journal and the battered pink iPhone but helps himself to a stick of chewing gum. “Bit disappointing,” he pronounces the contents, pocketing two of the tiny Gucci perfume samples. “Please tell me you’re not actually handing out samples. Shilling for millions.”

“It’s a nice scent. I’ll send some to Eileen.”

“You’re not wearing it. I smelt you before and you smelt like you still.” Nick’s thinking Tom Ford and tropical sunshine and the little Valentine candies with words on, but says instead “Bacon and artificial tanner, with a top note of dirty sock.”

“ _Heyyy_. It was you had the bacon wrapped ‘round your steak. Tan’s not a rub off, see? Tan’s Malibu. Socks’re brand new.”

“Gucci, of course. Get your foot out of my lap. I’d’ve taken your word for it. And put your shoes back on. Air’s being recirculated.”

“I’ve missed you."

Harry casually flirts with him, but Nick’s pretty sure Harry still casually flirts with everyone so it doesn’t count for anything. They study their phones and type into them more often than is quite polite, given how long it’s been since they’ve seen each other. Most of their conversation revolves around what they’re showing each other on their phones, actually, and Nick can’t help but notice that while he shares literally everything new that shows up on his phone with Harry, Harry’s selective and shows Nick much less, not to mention Harry’s more than content to nosily read every word Nick types over his shoulder, permission or not, but angles his own phone so Nick can’t see his screen. Nick doesn’t tell anyone that he’s met up with Harry yet and doesn’t bother to figure out why.

Landed at JFK, Harry goes into some kind of well-practised overdrive airport exiting mode and he and Nick quickly gather their luggage and are first off the plane.

“Stay close,” Harry says, taking one of Nick’s heavier bags, then tucking his chin and beginning to plow his way through the crowded terminal. “Customs. We’re pre-cleared. Should be quick.”

Nick expects security to meet Harry outside Customs, but there’s no one, not even Jeff, ever-present since circa 2013 Jeff, Nick thinks wryly. It had been bitter going from Harry’s best friend to his second best, and now maybe even his third or fourth best, if that. Who knows who Harry knows anymore? It grates on Nick, but Jeff gives good value, Nick has to grudgingly admit.

They attract some attention, not too much, all things considered. Harry offers tight-lipped smiles and little nods and waves but doesn’t slow down or speak to anyone and he doesn’t stop for photos and if Nick almost falls arse over tit on the escalator, he just hopes anyone with a camera has it focused on Harry and not on him, that’s all. Every man for himself. Nick’s days leading Harry by the wrist through crowds of paparazzi are over. Self-care.

Outside the terminal, Harry beelines for a large black Range Rover idling at the kerb, the driver side and rear passenger doors already open. Harry throws his luggage into the back seat, smoothly takes Nick’s and tosses it in after, opens the passenger door and gestures Nick in. “Get in.” He sounds tense. A little crowd is gathering, people are beginning to call Harry’s name. Then someone calls Nick by name, and Nick gets in, doesn’t look back, is grateful for the dark tint on the side windows that he knows can’t be seen through. Harry thanks the driver and lopes around to the driver’s side, sliding in and seamlessly shifting the idling car into gear.

“You’re just leaving him here?”

“Yes. He’s more a delivery person than a driver. I prefer it.”

“Long way from Cheshire, innit?” Nick mocks. “Driver, take me to Harry Styles’ posh mansion, please.”

“Shut up. You know it’s not a mansion. And it’s not that posh, either.”

“I like it. Best place you’ve had, all those exposed wood beams and arched windows. Looking forward to a late night skinny dip with Jake Gyllenhaal and JLaw this time. I’d quite fancy that. Be well worth the trip.”

Harry laughs. “We don’t, really, do that, use the pool much, I mean. It’s mostly only houseguests and ones with children that do.”

Nick queues up ‘gutted’ from his list of exaggerated facial expressions, and his voice conjures Christmas morning with no presents. “No hot tub full of Famouses?”

“No,” Harry laughs. “No hot tub full of Famouses. And there’s rules about you and Jake still.”

“Jealous much?”

“I might would be, but we’re not even going there. People know about there. Fans, they come there, too many Famouses in one place, like you say, god I loathe that expression, and I’ve got some stalkerish fans in the City, I mean, they’re just girls, mostly, not dangerous, but annoying and rather nasty, and if they find out I’m in town, which they likely will, given we were noticed at the airport, and also…just, never mind why, but we’re not staying there this time. I’ve a better place. You’ll see.”

Nick takes the opportunity to check his messages, send a few replies, holds up his phone and shows Harry an Insta story of Sunday pushing a mop and one of Stinky Blob apparently in time-out in what looks like Pix’s clawfoot bath. He admonishes Harry for checking his own phone and thumbing in texts repeatedly while he’s driving, but at a stoplight he holds up his phone and quickly leans into Harry, and Harry obliges him, presses close and lays his head against Nick's and grins into the camera without question or reservation. Nick is giggling as he sends off the selfie to his group chat, with ‘ _Pulling’s better in First!’ s_ crawled across it. He notes with satisfaction that Harry’s got his private smile on in the photo, not his fan photo one. He slides the selfie into his photo folder named “M’arry”, which he’s had to indignantly explain more than once stands for “Me and Harry” and is literal, not wishful, the shortening being an aesthetic necessity due to the set up of his homepage and his OCD about having the whole folder name show at a glance, and Nick knows he should’ve changed it by now but can't be arsed.

Predictably, now he’s let on he’s with Harry, Nick’s phone blows up.

“Pix says ‘WTF’ with a string of head exploding emojis and a scowl at the end. Pretty certain that means ‘Give Harry my love.’”

Harry hmphfs, keeps his eyes on the road.

“Here’s Alexa. She’s sent me shock eyes and a bit of a lecture about staying focused on Plan C. She spelt ‘backslide’ wrong. Says hello to you with the crying emoji about your haircut.”

“Good to know. Tell her hello for me.”

“And Aimee also says hello.” Nick thinks better of reading what else Aimee has to say out loud to Harry. He likes having her always on his side well enough, but Harry isn’t as 100% to blame for everything that’s happened between them as Aimee’s prone to think, and Nick’s learnt a thing or two about codependence in therapy, hasn’t he?

Harry’s phone goes off and Harry reads the message and frowns, drops his phone in the console between them.

“Aimee says if I mess you about, she’ll detach me from my bollocks, grind them up and use them to fertilise her garden. No emojis, so I guess it’s meant to be serious. Niiice. No messing you about. Got it.”

Nick laughs, but Harry’s not got it wrong, he thinks. Thanks for having my back, Aims. Besides, Harry’s got his own Jeff-shaped Aimee who’s every bit as protective.

On a quiet cobbled street many blocks from the Tribeca property he’s publicly known to own, Harry slows in front of a charming narrow brownstone set into a row of other charming narrow brownstones and reaches for the clicker on his sun visor. Nick watches as a discreet but sturdy gate in the facade, disguised to look like a courtyard entry gate and barely wide and tall enough for the SUV, swings open. Harry steers the car into the tight lane that's revealed, driving down a cave-like tunnel until he pulls into a parking space, one of only two in the dimly lit private underground garage. Harry hops out and begins unloading their luggage, grinning at Nick.

“C’mon.” He gestures towards a lift. “We’re home.”

“What is this place?”

“It’s… I think of it as my safe house.”


	2. Be My Guest

_ The very essence of romance is uncertainty.   Oscar Wilde _

Harry drops his luggage in the corner of the lift and waits for Nick to join him. The door closes and Harry enters a code and presses the 1 button. The lift silently rises one floor and the door reopens.

“Just leave the bags in here for now. Bedrooms are one and two up.”

Nick sets down his own luggage. “One? Or two?”

“Yes.”

Harry sheds two layers of travel camo in the little foyer and heads off down the hall, turning on lights as he goes and disappearing around a corner. Nick scurries along to follow. The first floor is a mix of brick and warm wood, historical bones with a contemporary skin that feels like Harry to Nick. Industrial fixtures light large contemporary canvases in sleek gallery frames, soothing blurs of colour sometimes cut through with jagged bold lines and text. Nick thinks he recognises a diptych by their friend Tomo Campbell but it’s the Tracey Emin that stops him. He’s seen it on exhibit a while back.  _'Not to love the person you are with is a crime'_ is scrawled inelegantly across the canvas, and both the visual art and its message are raw and blunt and somehow discomfortingly accusatory. It’s the ultimate in call-out art, to Nick anyway, making him feel like he needs to go look at himself in a mirror and reassure himself that it isn’t addressed specifically to him.

“You bought it.” 

Harry pops his head back around the corner to see. “I did.”

“It was my favourite of the whole exhibit.”

“You mentioned. I was going to gift it to you as a wedding present if you hadn’t come to your senses. Fancy a cuppa?”

Definitely a call-out, then. Nick thinks Harry’s probably serious about the wedding gift thing and Nick doesn’t want to discuss it, so he doesn’t react, just follows Harry into the kitchen.

“I can put kettle on while you gather the rest,” Nick offers.

Harry gestures towards an intimidating stainless steel appliance crouched on the far counter, sleek and imposing at the same time, with its spouts and levers and indecipherable foreign symbols.

“I’ve not got a kettle yet, just that machine the estate agent gifted. But it does hot water too, not just coffee. And makes things fizzy as well. I’ve been meaning to get a proper one, kettle.”

Harry has two matching but nondescript mugs in hand. He sets them on the counter and moves to the refrigerator.

“I have almond milk, I think.” He emerges, triumphant. “Not much else in there though. Wilted greens. Mingin’ fruit. I’ll call ‘round to the grocer later.” Harry fusses with the appliance, drops stringed tea bags, Clipper brand, ‘natural, fair and delicious’ the box reads, into the now steaming mugs.

“I could do with a bit of a wash up,” Nick says.

“Right! Sorry. Of course. Toilet’s right through here, should have everything you need. Tell me if not.”

Nick’s right on his heels when Harry stops abruptly and gestures through a narrow doorway, this bit of the house is scaled in quite tight proportions. Nick wedges awkwardly past him through the opening. Harry’s hand is suddenly at his hip, stalling him. They’re too close, close enough to kiss, and for a second Nick wonders if Harry actually is going to kiss him, if it’s going to be that kind of weekend, and if Nick wants it to be that kind of weekend, and even if he wants it to be, will he let it be, and if he lets it be, should he let it be, and what will his therapist, and worse, Aimee and the rest of the girls have to say about it. It goes against Plan C after all, and-

Harry doesn’t kiss him, just hugs him a third time for the day, then gestures towards the doorway.

“Be my guest, Nick. I’m really happy you’re here.”

Harry takes a step back, as if nothing intimate has happened, and has it, really? Nick isn’t sure, but Harry’s eyes seem too bright and eager for the answer to be a simple no.

“I’ll take our luggage upstairs and wash up myself. I’ll be back down in a second. Make yourself at home.”

Nick’s stood in front of the hand basin when he hears the whisper of the lift rising. He sighs in relief. It’s the first break he’s had from Harry in at least ten hours and well needed. He splashes his face, scowls at his reflection. If he’d known, he’d have touched up his Botox. As it is, though, his eyebrows and forehead can manage almost the full range of expressions and his age is plainly written in every line. It doesn’t bloody matter, he tells himself sternly. Not anymore.

A few hours later, they’ve moved on from hot tea to red wine and Nick’s got his nose buried in his phone as Harry unhurriedly unpacks groceries that were mysteriously delivered via a dumb waiter set in a discreet pantry that seamlessly matches the kitchen cabinetry. Nick glances up and watches, unwillingly impressed, as Harry unpacks - more wine, skinless chicken, fish, lemons, herbs, greens, fruit, yoghurt, bread, yet another kind of greens, all the makings of Sunday roast, two large bouquets of fresh flowers wrapped in paper which Harry drops unceremoniously into a deep cooking pot he materialises from a lower cabinet and, finally, the good stuff, cherry whips and fruit pastilles and cheesy popped corn, Hobnobs and half a dozen other types of biscuits, tins of assorted candies and several giant bags of salt and vinegar crisps, one of which Harry lobs unceremoniously across the island at Nick’s head.

“Hor d’oeurves.”

Nick is ripping open the crisp bag with his teeth when he notices Harry secreting something from a market bag into a drawer in the kitchen island.

“What’s that you’re not sharing? Let’s see.”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” Harry’s blushing pink, caught out, and Nick, of course, is on him like a hound on scent. He gets up and rounds the island. Harry shifts, his hips blocking the drawer, but Nick’s got his hand past Harry’s hips and on the drawer handle and a knee wedged between Harry’s leg and the cabinet like a human can opener. They scuffle briefly, teetering somewhere between a shoving match and a tickle fight, before Harry gives up and shrugs and steps aside. Nick, victorious, opens the drawer and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Condoms. Glyde Ultrasheer Maxi XL, ‘ethical, vegan, fair trade’. Nick is well familiar with them, where Harry’s concerned, anyway. He just hasn’t seen them in quite a while.

“Oh.” A wave of the most intense kind of muscle memory washes over him, unwelcome and disorienting.

“I just remembered I was out, is all, and I don’t like to have my PA do some things, and it’s easier to have them delivered than go to the chemist myself and wind up trending on Twitter for buying condoms. It doesn’t mean anything…or anything.”

Nick slowly closes the drawer, bites his lip to keep from saying “When did it ever?”, but he’s pretty sure Harry hears it anyway, hears it in that peculiar way Harry has of reading Nick’s thoughts, and that somehow feels even more invasive than Harry possibly, most probably, quite definitely assuming that Nick’s going to fall back on his dick for the weekend.

“Going clubbing, are you? Or dialing out for it? Is that what’s had you so busy on your phone?” He means to sound carefree and congenial but he’s not got his inflection just right, probably on account of the tannins, he thinks, definitely the tannins. He should really leave off the red wine and go back to spirits.

“No, I just…I thought, it was…I mean…no.”

Nick lets him stutter it out, stares at him, unblinking, Nick’s face more masked than when he was actually wearing one earlier. He raises his wine glass. “Got any more red, Harold?”

It’s a good meal and Harry is on his very best hosting behaviour, filling glasses, exchanging plates, bantering, keeping the conversation always in safe territory, old friends, old times, old jokes. Nick’s eased up a bit, warm from the good wine, the good company. He lets his guard down and Harry pounces, at least it feels like a pounce to Nick.

“Um, about earlier, I’m sorry it seemed that I assumed. I mean, I didn’t, assume, really, so much as I hoped, I-"

“Except you did assume. Here’s Grimmy, turned up out the blue, easy as ever, even though I haven’t been arsed to text him back _in months._ Always good for weekend shagfest, me.”

Harry blanches white.

“I never. And as for messaging, you were very...adamant, that you were with Mesh.”

Harry’s phone buzzes on the island and he glances at it but doesn’t pick it up.

“Doesn’t mean we stop being friends, does it? Plus, you said you read I wasn’t.”

“I just wish you’d said. I would’ve been there for you, like all the other times you got broke up with.”

“I broke up with him.”

“Still. We could’ve gone on the piss for the weekend, egged his flat or summat. I could've made you feel better.”

Red wine really does tend to make Nick churlish, especially when he’s knackered, which is why when he goes to tell Harry thank you, that would’ve been nice, that Nick could’ve used the company, he opens his big gob and says, instead

“ _Oh-ohhh_. Aren’t I the lucky one? Here’s Harry Styles off One Direction, come to my rescue again like a white knight on his trusty Triple Seven, waving his big, huge sword around, gallantly fucking me for a weekend like it’s some kind of emotional therapy for break-ups.” Nick looks around him exaggeratedly, like there’s an audience. “Am I the only one sensing a trend here?” His laugh is wry. “I hate to break it to you, Popstar, but your dick’s not a magic antidote for depression. Quite the opposite.”

“Heyyy! I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant-"

“I know what you meant. Anyway, you hate Mesh.”

“I do not hate Mesh,” Harry insists. Then his voice drops to a low mutter, like he’s talking to himself. “He’s a Sutton fuckboy with not much between the ears, but I don’t ha-"

“Don’t you dare slag him off like that! Mesh is lovely. Mesh was good for me.”

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t nice. I take that back. I don’t hate Mesh. I don’t even know Mesh. What I hate is that you’re my best mate and I didn’t even know you broke up.”

Nick’s exhausted and overwhelmed and he just can’t help himself. Months, maybe years of pent-up hurt and frustration and sense of abandonment and jealousy bubble to the surface. He accidentally snorts, a disgusted, unattractive snort that conjures up his father on rainy Saturdays when his team’s lost right at the finish on telly.

And just like that, everything goes pear-shaped.

“Who’re you kidding, Harry, yourself? I’m not your best mate anymore. Maybe not even second or third best.”

“Nick!"

“How’s it go now? Jeff, Mitch, me? Or is it Mitch, Jeff, then me? Or does it all just depend on whether you’re writing or you’re touring or you’re just someplace in between, like now? Or is it just whoever’s stood in front of you, also like now?”

Harry looks fragile, shocked. “You’re still first,” he says quietly, but to Nick’s ears, he doesn’t sound certain or convincing.

Harry’s phone vibrates on the counter again. They both stare at it until it stops, but it just starts buzzing again before they even have time to look up. Apologizing, Harry picks it up, thumbs it, begins to type, one handed.

“Sorry, I need to answer just this one and…”

Nick throws down his napkin, laughs genuinely and more than a little bitterly at the irony of it.

“Don’t mind me, mate. Answer your messages. Check your Twitter and your secret Finsta with all the supermodels on. Never mind we’re in the middle of a row and haven’t seen each other in yonks. You can’t even focus on me for the length of a conversation. I haven’t come first since you were twenty, if that. I can’t even compete with your phone through dinner, much less a whole weekend and your all-important career and everyone else who wants a piece of you ’til there’s nothing left for me. I get it, and I’ve got over it, present strop aside, I’m fine, but-”

 _“Nick.”_ Harry sets his phone down carefully, silences it. “You _are_ my best friend. And I _can_ put you first. Everything, it’s different now. I have more control, over almost everything. I can tour when I want, or not. Do what I want. Live where I want. And everyone knows I like boys as well as girls now, so that bit’s finally done.”

Nick just laughs, a smidge to the left of hysterical, doesn’t say anything. He’s feeling too vulnerable and he suspects he’s over-reacting and he doesn’t quite know why, except that it feels like water’s rushing over his head and his life’s flashing before his eyes like a 35mm film in reverse, the interminable flight from California to get back home to Pixie when he’d learnt Peaches was gone, the large ginger cat darting across the street and him tumbling about like laundry in the washer-dryer when his motor flipped over.

He wishes he were sat on the floor in front of the mini-bar at the Mandarin Oriental crying down the line to Aimee about Harry fucking Styles ruining Plan C before Nick’s even got it launched. And he wishes that he wished Harry hadn’t even been on his plane and that he was just lying up in the hotel bed eating room service on Netflix, like he’d planned, but he doesn’t wish for that, not even a little, and that’s because, says his therapist, and she’s good, she’s really good, that’s because Nick apparently loves Harry more than he loves himself. Or at least he used to.

Kick. Kick.

Harry's not let up.

“It’ll all be so much easier this time, you’ll see. I don’t understand why you’re so angry with me. And by the way, you’re more addicted to your bloody phone than I am, loads more. When last did I care about fucking Twitter and Instagram? You’re the one’s addicted. Fuck’s sake, I see the back of your phone more than your face half the time.”

“That’s rubbish. I mean, I do like my mobile, but that last bit was well exaggerated.”

“Was it, though?”

The way Harry says it, and the way Harry’s looking at him, and the way Nick’s felt more like he’s stood on a rocking boat than on solid ground since they landed at JFK, and the unwelcome bit of doubt he’s allowed himself to feel about being addicted to his social media, dependent on it, because he had, in fact, once told The Guardian that his iPhone was the great love of his life, it all combines to make him feel defensive and reckless, and Nick’s never once in his life said a single solitary thing helpful when he’s feeling defensive and reckless, which is why he makes the dare.

“I bet you anything you want that you can’t go the weekend without your phone.”

Harry stares at him, unblinking. There’s a twist to his mouth that says he’s set his mind to something, and his face is flushed and pale at the same time. It’s a good look on him, Nick thinks randomly, because Nick really does suck at self-care.

Harry takes a few slow deep breaths, a self-calming ritual Nick recognises, then he reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out his battered pink iPhone, sets it on the counter alongside his other, before taking one long step deep into Nick’s personal space.

“I bet _you_ can’t go the weekend without _your_ phone. You have, quite literally, sent texts while I was blowing you.”

White hot memory sweeps over Nick, the stretch of Harry’s lips, his watchful eyes, the feel of his hair twisted tight around Nick’s fingers, other things Nick’s not supposed to let himself think about anymore.

“And _you’ve_ had a call from Jeffrey whilst on all fours, so don’t even…”

“ _Just the once!_  And it was you handed the phone to me, so it shouldn’t count.”

Nick can’t help it. A throaty laugh escapes him, and it’s fond and it’s funny and it’s real and when could he ever stay angry at Harry?

“God, we’re such idiots,” he manages to gargle out.

Harry’s laughing too, the tension broken. “Bloody idiots. But listen.” Harry puts his hand on Nick’s wrist, quieting him. “It’s not such a bad idea, is it? I mean, we have this, this unexpected window, this couple of days alone for the first time in _ages_ , Nick, in so long. Maybe we could use it to…maybe we can work things out?”

“Um, by work things out, do you mean talk them out, or fuck them out?”

“Whichever you prefer. Whichever’ll work. Both.”

Nick sighs, thinks it’s inevitable, innit? He might as well declare defeat, take off his pants right here in Harry’s kitchen and book his next six months of therapy before he turns off his phone. He knows better, but it’s Harry, and when in the history of ever has Nick been able to say no to Harry? It’s weird that Harry’s never seemed to understand this fact of life, that Nick’s not one to say no. Nick’s one to not say yes, and that’s something entirely different. And for fuck’s sake, it’s not like he hasn’t evolved, is it, developed better coping mechanisms and self-awareness and all that expensive as fuck psychological shit he could’ve got for free from his girls if he’d just listened to them all those years?

Harry’s phone vibrates angrily from the island. It doesn’t like to be ignored, but Harry studiously ignores it, makes a point of not even glancing down, dares to dare Nick with how aggressively he ignores it.

“Fine. No phones, then.” Nick puts his own phone on the table.

“Fine. For how long?”

Nick grins. “You’re folding already.”

“I’m not. I just asked how long.”

“Sunday night. We can do 48 hours, right? God help us if we can’t.”

Harry bites his lip, seems to really think it over, takes a deep breath and makes up his mind.

“You said you bet me anything I want. What if I want you? What if I want you to give us another chance?”

Abort! Abort! Abort!

“We’ll talk, okay?” Nick says. “That’s all I’ll promise.”

Harry closes the last of the distance between them.

“That’s a start. And I promise you’ll have my undivided attention.”

He brushes his lips against Nick’s for the first time in what seems like longer than ever. They jump apart when both their phones buzz angrily, then hug, laughing.

“Do we just, like, turn them off?” Nick asks.

“I have to text Mum first, so she doesn’t worry, and Jeff, else he’ll have someone triangulating my last signal by dawn.”

“Right, right, good thinking. I’ll just send one to the group chat and that’s me covered. Wish me luck.”

“Wish _me_ luck,” Harry counters. “Doesn’t sound like some of them like me much anymore.”

Nick’s hardly pressed send before his phone erupts, in protest he’s sure.

“This is mad,” Nick mutters, thumbing his phone off without looking.

“Divine madness,” Harry grins, thumbing both of his phones off steadfastly and sweeping all three of them into the still-open drawer. He fingers the box of condoms, looks up at Nick through his lashes, bats them flirtatiously, although Nick knows it’s mostly for effect. And it has an effect.

“Don’t start with me. I didn’t agree to the fucking, just the talking. Any road, I’m utterly knackered. It’s jet lag for me tomorrow.”

“You don’t have jet lag flying London to New York.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“You’re the expert at jet lag, so who am I to question? What a relief. I thought an extra long recuperative lie-in was going to be required, that I’d only have strength to watch naked telly from bed while you wait on me hand and foot.”

“On second thought, it was a very long flight. Maybe there’ll be just a touch of jet lag.”

In the lift, Nick still feels slightly lightheaded, off kilter, but thinks he might just be listing to the left because he’s missing the familiar ballast of his phone in his right trouser pocket. He could do with sleep, honestly. This day has already been a very lot.

Harry presses 3 and the elevator glides soundlessly upward. At the third floor, the lift opens onto a hallway across from heavy French doors into what can only be Harry's bedroom suite. Nick sees his own luggage stacked neatly inside the door next to Harry’s.

“Err, my room’s which way then?” Nick’s realised they’re in a small foyer, not a hallway, just a space meant to keep people from tumbling straight off the lift into Harry’s bedroom. There’s clearly no guest rooms up here. Nick picks up his largest bag pointedly.

Harry’s brow furrows momentarily but he quickly recovers.

“Yeah, sure, you’re just one floor back down, I’ll show you. I, um, I just dropped the bags all in here, I didn’t, I wasn’t expecting… I may need to put some fresh linens on down there, I mean, they’ve not been slept in, like I said, no one’s been here, but they may have been on too long, so I can-”

“Harry, it’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’ll be fine. Not like I haven’t had to strip off the linens and sleep on a bare mattress often enough, is it? Could do with a hot shower.” Nick assesses his luggage. “Fuck, I’ve left my holdall in your car.”

Harry flushes. “No, it’s… I already put it in my bathroom, I’ll just…” Harry dodges around a doorless corner and emerges with a sheepish grin and Nick’s toiletry bag. “Okay, maybe I assumed a little.”

Nick laughs, easy. “S’alright. Bit habit, innit?”

Downstairs in a cozy guest bedroom, Nick dumps his bags on the bed and unzips the middle-sized one, grabs a clean set of pants and his pyjamas in one hand and his toiletry bag in the other. Harry follows him into the en suite and passes Nick a flannel he materialises from a little closet hidden in the pale grey lacquered paneling, then grabs a little pile of folded linens from a shelf and slips past him in the doorway.

“I’ll just be out here.”

Nick takes his time, stalling, steeling himself. He takes his own hair products from his toiletry bag, no room for experimentation on the hair front, but he surveys the little guest trio of Frederic Malle body wash with curiosity, sniffing at Carnal Flower and Cologne Indelebile before deciding on Geranium Pour Monsiour, because if he’s choosing between flowery or fruity or more traditionally masculine, tonight Nick’s going with aggressively manly, just to spite his enemies. When he finally emerges, Harry’s faffing about turning down the bed and fluffing the pillows. Nick’s hanging bag is hung up and his suit is airing and the rest of his luggage is stacked in the closet and his clothes, he knows, are neatly stacked in drawers, socks and pants on top, shirts in middle, trousers in bottom, not Harry’s way of doing things, as Harry’s used to living out of luggage and being places only one night and has long since given up unpacking anything. No, Harry’s arranged things Nick’s way, because Nick likes things organised neatly and not to feel so transient and Nick’s one who really moves himself into a hotel room. They’ve never discussed it, and Nick’s touched Harry’s paid such close attention.

“Thanks, love.”

“Those’re new,” Harry observes of Nick’s aubergine satin pyjamas. “Colour’s good on you.” He fluffs Nick’s pillow again.

“They were, ah, a gift.” Awkward. “God, stop fussing over me, would you? Have you got an alarm in here?”

He frowns at the bedside table, barren except for an odd looking lamp and his sleep mask, which Harry’s laid out for him, considerate.

“It’s not a hotel,” Harry laughs. “There’s no digital clock on the lamp, if that’s what you’re looking for. I just use my phone…” His voice trails off. “I would say call me if you need anything, but…”

“God help us.”

“First one up wakes the other, then?”

“No!” Nick protests dramatically, climbing under the covers and reaching for his mask. “It’s the weekend. First one up is quiet as mouse.”

“Quiet as mouse. Got it.”

Harry leans in and kisses Nick on top of the head.

“I’m happy you’re here. I love you. Sweet dreams, Nicholas.”

“Sweet dreams, Harold.”

An hour and a half later and Nick still smells eau de Harry hovering in the air or maybe rubbed off on his linens. He’s heard Harry moving about just above his head, the shower running a long time, water rushing noisily down the wall behind his head. He’s still awake when he hears the telly come on, too muffled for him to tell what Harry’s watching. Nick’s the opposite of falling asleep. He’s feeling agitated and ridiculous, Harry just one floor away from him, and he’s lying down here alone, no phone, no internet to peruse, no telly, no chance in hell of falling asleep. He sighs and sits reluctantly at the side of the bed for a bit before getting up and feeling his way down the hall to the lift. He’s not even reached out to press the call button yet when it opens as if by magic, and there’s Harry, stood there looking as startled as Nick, in white briefs and a rather short green and white satin patterned robe with green lapels, open down the front and sash dragging on the floor, feet bare, eyes wide behind his glasses, a squatty pottery jug full of carefully cropped and nicely arranged flowers in one hand and a Diptyque candle in the other. Nick feels like he’s got out of bed and wandered straight into the middle of a Gucci shoot. He scans Harry up and down and takes a mental snapshot that he already knows he’ll wank to someday, so why fight it?

“Harry! Give me a fucking coronary, why don’t you? You can’t just jump out of lifts onto unsuspecting houseguests while they’re sleeping.”

Harry laughs. “I didn’t jump. And you’re not sleeping. Why?”

“I’ve got no telly or phone or company of my dogs or anything to help me wind down. Nighttime ritual,” Nick admits, shrugging.

“You’ve got no telly,” Harry muses. “That’s a massive problem. I’ll have one delivered tomorrow.”

And with that, Harry brushes past him and is off to Nick’s room as if he owns it, which he apparently does.

“Forgot to bring your flowers up earlier. You still fancy a flower, right?”

Nick still fancies a flower.

Harry sets the flowers on the chest of drawers, stands back and studies them for effect before setting the candle down as well and lighting it with matches fished from a robe pocket. Then he moves to the bedside table, digging about in the pockets of his robe again.

“I brought you a wristwatch. Only other clocks are on appliances and the cable boxes, so’s the best I can do ’til tomorrow.”

Harry pulls the watch from his pocket and lays it carefully on the bedside table next to Nick’s sleep mask, follows with a tall bottle of Voss.

“Bottle of water for you, room temperature the way you like.” He turns to Nick and smiles, seeking Nick’s approval in the curious manner he’s done since he was teenager.

“Wow. Thank you. Hostess with the mostest and all that. You don’t happen to have a smart telly with WiFi in your pants, do you?”

Harry laughs. “No, but there’s one in the living room.”

“Right, right, that’s where I was going earlier,” Nick lies, but doesn’t quite know why.

Harry pulls at his lower lip, looks at Nick from underneath his lashes.

“There’s one in my room as well.”

Harry bats his eyelashes again, turns his shoulder towards Nick and smiles coyly, somehow both a pin-up girl and 100% authentically Harry at the same time, and Nick is well and truly fucked, isn’t he, because he can’t take his eyes off Harry’s chest and thighs and the stupid lion tattoo showing just below the hem of the robe and the ridiculous knee tattoos he’s heard about but never seen in person and wants explained to him. Nick frantically flips through his mental notebook of lessons learnt in therapy, hears his therapist’s voice, clings to it like a lifeline.

_“It’s not that you have too many feelings, Nicholas. It’s that you have too few coping skills, and that’s what we’ll work on together.”_

Well just fuck her, Nick thinks hysterically. She’s not stood here with half-naked Harry Styles running a full tilt charm offensive on her, trying to get her into his bed, and Nick’s willing to bet that if she were, she’d have stripped off and be riding him reverse cowgirl already.

Nick says nothing, and Harry wraps his fingers around Nick’s wrist, pulling gently.

“C’mon. Sofa’s rubbish. And it’s not like we haven’t slept in the same bed a million times. I’ll leave the telly on low for you, dim the screen the way you like.”

“I just think-”

“What? That I’ll not honour your boundaries? You’ve not been subtle about setting them.”

“It’s not-”

“Or is it what you might do’s got you concerned?”

“Ancient history,” Nick protests halfheartedly, scrubbing at his slightly scruffy jaw, where his 5 o’clock shadow is clearly still on London time.

“And so what if you did, want to do something? I’m up for it.” Harry slow blinks him and dimples, and Nick thinks, not for the first time, that Harry’s got the most angelic face of any demonic, manipulative little shit he knows. In the face of Harry’s charm offensive, Nick hiccups and splutters.

“Ack. This is just, this is just so…this is just so fucking-”

“What?”

 _“Inappropriate!”_ Nick shrills.

Harry laughs at him. “We’re both full grown men. Now let’s act like it and have a proper sleepover.”

Nick firmly decides to tell Harry that he’s going to make himself comfortable on the sofa, gets a peek at a rippling laurel as Harry’s robe drops open and says, instead

“But no snogging. No blurring the lines. Just telly and sleep. Laddy lads only.”

Harry grins, knows he won. “Laddy lads only, I promise. I'll be a perfect gentleman. Absolutely no snogging. And no line blurring. No phones, no snogging, no line blurring. Very laddy. Any other demands?”

“Um, cooking channel?”

“Done.”

Harry grins, delighted, remembers to grab Nick’s sleep mask and bottled water before literally pulling him towards the lift.

Nick had only just hovered in the doorway of Harry’s bedroom suite earlier, not gone in, but now he has a good look around. It’s a far cry from the somewhat smelly London flat Harry’d lived in when Nick first met him. That one had a good address and loads of security but mostly empty rooms, floors littered with abandoned soiled clothes and grotty takeaway cartons and half-emptied luggage, the stray piece of contemporary artwork Harry’d begun collecting propped against the wall, even so early on. It had been the temporary landing pad of a newly-monied child with a foreshadowing of good taste but no time, and with many places, Nick had quickly learnt, that he preferred to sleep other than his own bed, sometimes Nick’s, but often enough, elsewhere.

The walls of Harry’s bedroom are a luxurious dark grey sueded fabric, and the treatments at the tall windows match. Nick knows Harry well enough to suspect that there’s billowy white sheers behind, so that the room can be filled with sunshine if Harry wants, but that the grey drapes, when closed like they are now, will entirely shut out the world, so that Harry can lie in when his internal clock isn’t quite on Eastern Standard Time. Everything in the room is simple and sophisticated and spare and soothing to the eye, varying depths of cool grey repeated in subtle contemporary patterns on the chairs and ottoman and throw pillows, touches of crisp white and palest pink and deep teal completing the palette. Harry’s bed floats on the far wall like an enormous low hanging cumulus cloud of grey linens and fluffy white pillows. Other than some lit candles spread about, a journal lying closed on the desk, a stack of books by the bed, two guitars propped against a wall and a small keyboard lying on the ottoman, there’s nothing much else that speaks of Harry except the lone piece of artwork which is hung over the bed, and that’s where Nick’s study of the room ultimately lingers. It’s a delicately wrought neon sign emanating a soft shell pink glow, the colour of an old cameo set in rose gold that Nick’s mum inherited from her nan and that’s been promised to his sister Jane someday, although Nick’s always not-so-secretly coveted it.

**_LOVE ME, PLEASE?_ **

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182258842@N03/48140217288/in/dateposted-public/)

“Do you like it?” Harry asks. “It’s another Tracy Emin. She and I get on well, and she allowed me to commission it.”

“It’s beautiful. That’s your handwriting.”

“Yes.”

“Love me, please?” Nick reads, mimicking Harry’s most seductive bedroom voice. “It’s very you. Very fitting,” Nick chuckles. “Polite and narcissistic and demanding, all in one go.”

“Don’t.” Harry’s tone is surprisingly serious. “Please don’t...depreciate it, like that. It’s not sexual. It’s got nothing to do with sex. It’s more, like, a romantic thing. It’s meant to be a love note. Love me, _please?”_  he demonstrates earnestly, the longing in his voice giving the neon sign an entirely different meaning.

It strikes a chord deep within him and Nick's heart skips a beat, but he's careful not to let his voice betray it.

“Ahhh, I see. That’s lovely, Harry. It’s quite perfect, really. A beautiful piece. And bespoke Emin. That’ll be worth more’n a bit in years.”

Soon Nick’s ensconced like a king in Harry’s enormous bed, bathed in the flattering low glow of the barely pink light, much better than his blue one, which is pretty and he quite adores but the colour tends to make everyone look a bit like corpses. Nick’s sleep mask is shoved up on his forehead like a crown, pushing his hair all out of whack. Harry messes about with the candles and then sheds his robe without fanfare and crawls into bed, deftly works the remote and adjusts the television settings as promised. The volume purrs just loud enough to hear and the light from the telly dims to the pale blue haze that’s like a sedative to Nick. Not ten minutes later, lying in this strange town in this strange house in this strange bed, Nick’s keenly aware that Harry’s wearing nothing but his pants and smells like a tropical breeze while Nick somehow still smells like almost 6,000 kilometres of travel, middle age and desperation. Harry’s hair is tickling his chin and Harry’s humid little mint-infused wheezes are making Nick’s left armpit damp, and well, if this feels the most like home Nick’s been in a very long while, nobody else needs to know, especially not his mum, because he’s been to Oldham to see her and slept in his childhood bed three times in the last few months, so especially not Eileen, so as not to hurt her feelings, and most especially not Harry, so as not to confuse things.


	3. Dress Rehearsal

_ Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.   Oscar Wilde _

It isn’t the smell of Harry or his fancy candles that Nick wakes up to. It’s bacon and coffee and something toasty with almonds being baked, and to Nick, it’s as good as a note pinned to the empty pillow next to him, maybe better. Nick, feeling lazy, goes to borrow Harry’s toothbrush to clean his teeth and finds his own toiletry items neatly laid out instead. At some point, without waking him, Harry’s brought Nick’s necessaries up, along with the pretty little jug of flowers. Harry must’ve taken the quiet as mouse thing to heart. Nick allows himself to enjoy being made a fuss over, smiles and allows toothpaste to foam all down his chin.

New York City brownstones aren’t exactly filled with natural light, shoved tightly up against one another as they are, but when Nick walks into Harry’s kitchen he’s almost blinded by sunshine. There’s two windows, tall and narrow, but he’s pretty certain that most of it is coming from Harry, who’s beaming at him from where he’s stood by the centre island, satin robe back on, holding two crystal wine flutes in his hands.

“Good morrrrning, Nick Grimshaw! Mimosa?”

“Morning,” Nick grins back. “Were you posing? You look very fetching.” He takes the proffered glass, sips, makes a satisfied little grunt.

“Fetching, eh?” Harry preens while Nick makes a show of looking him from head to toe and back.

“I’ve woke up to worse,” Nick offers, and Harry laughs, leans in and kisses him, his lips just soft and open enough in the instant for Nick to learn that he tastes of bright citrus and bacon, of fresh made coffee and mint, and Nick closes his eyes and wonders what could ever be better to wake up to than this, except for waking up to this on the customary side of the pond.

Their crystal flutes chime like bells when Harry gently clinks them together.

“Cheers. Welcome to New York City. Here’s to Plan C.”

Nick yawns and stretches, systematically popping his spine in half a dozen places. “You were right. I don’t feel jet lagged, just a bit tight from sitting. And starved, thanks for this.”

“Promised you breakfast in bed, didn’t I? Just didn’t make it up with your tray in time. Coffee?”

“Please.”

Nick watches as Harry stands in front of the coffee machine, his back to him, tries to catch the curve of his bum as he’s stood there, one foot propped against the other calf like a ballet dancer, the muscles of his calves bulging and veiny and surprisingly hairy, even though Nick had once been familiar with every hair on him. Harry turns around with the fresh brewed coffee in hand, catching Nick’s eyes on his bum. Nick’s almost certain he sees a smug twist to Harry’s mouth, a smirk of satisfaction or determination or something, and Nick has a sinking feeling that Harry has no intention of staying in that slightly off centre compartment that Nick’s supposed to keep him in, has no intention of that at all. Nick’s eyes drop to Harry’s chest, to the wispy little patches of hair that seem to be struggling to grow, like test crops failing to thrive. With his new tattoos and the hair on his head and legs and chest all coming and going and growing in different directions than Nick’s last seen them, Harry’s body doesn’t seem familiar anymore, which is unutterably sad, and just like that, Nick’s overwhelmed with that sense of drowning that he associates with Harry. But Nick’s got newly learnt coping mechanisms, hasn’t he, so he puts them to use and consciously kicks against the pull of it, against the inexorable undertow of Harry. Which is why when he goes to tell Harry that breakfast smells terrific, what comes out instead is

“Schedule too busy for manscaping?” Nick’s every bit as shocked as Harry by his words, so he plasters a joker’s smile on his face and chuckles to take the sting out of it, but it’s apparently too little too late.

Harry flushes high on his cheekbones, suddenly self-conscious, this mega-watt superstar wanted by half the human population but who seems fully intent on wooing Nick this weekend, and how can that even be?

“You weren’t expected.”

Nick watches in dismay as Harry steps back, pulls his robe closed across his chest with one hand and then gathers up the tails of his sash and ties them. Nick tries to restore some balance, to fix things, so he laughs more loudly than warranted.

“Aw, Sue, don’t put your titties away. I was only joking. You’re fit as ever and I hate you.”

The retraction earns him a tentative smile and another pour of Mimosa from the jug.

“So…true confession. Were you cheating on me?” Nick asks.

“What? Cheat? What?” Harry shakes his head a little, blinks hard, looks entirely befuddled, and Nick, who’s possibly watched every interview Harry’s ever given, which is more than a few, can hear Harry saying “I was leaving on a train!” as clearly in his head as if Harry’s said it out loud, and Nick suppresses an amused snort.

“Did you sneak a look at your phone while I was upstairs?”

“I did not.” Harry feigns indignance. “I swear down, I didn’t. I was busy cooking breakfast for the man I love. Which, by the way, is getting cold.”

Harry, ever the gentleman, walks around to Nick’s side of the island and pulls out a stool, gestures politely for Nick to have a seat. Nick sits, and Harry drops the quickest of kisses on his cheek before walking back around the island.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what? It was just a kiss on the cheek. I can’t believe you’re actually sat in my kitchen right now.”

“Don’t with the ‘man I love’ stuff.”

“But, you are?”

“Seriously? I need you to not, please.”

Nick tucks into his breakfast and when he looks up, Harry’s just pushing eggs around his plate, his lips sucked in until his beautiful mouth’s nothing but a pale lipless line, and Nick feels unaccustomedly mean and more than a little guilty and like he’s punished the sun for shining. For the next hour, Nick fully commits himself to damage control, babbling with cheerful determination, practically a one man show full of gossip about everyone they mutually know in London plus half the guests he’s had on his show, until the jug of Mimosas is empty and he’s finally got Harry smiling and laughing with his head thrown back and his robe hanging precariously off one bare shoulder and all seems well again, thank fuck.

They do the washing up together, shoulder to shoulder, Harry washing meticulously and Nick drying haphazardly, sharing stupid jokes and elbowing each other just to be nuisances, and it’s easy, like old times almost, and if Nick stares at Harry’s long, soapy fingers gently stroking suds in and out of the champagne flutes, stares at them like Nick’s a dog and each of Harry’s fingers is a juicy bone, Harry thankfully doesn’t notice, so that’ll just stay between Nick and his therapist…and Aimee…and the rest of the girls, because who’s he kidding? His fixation with Harry’s fingers won’t come as news to anyone but Harry, and even with him Nick’s not so certain it’s a very well kept secret. Those fingers have done deliciously filthy things to him, after all, things Nick’s no longer supposed to think about.

Five minutes of idle time while Harry puts things back in their proper places, and Nick’s palms are itching for his iPhone. He briefly considers suggesting they take a half hour time out from their self-imposed social media exile, but he knows Harry’ll take the piss out of him for being weak so he decides against it.

“What’s on schedule?” he asks instead.

“Anything you like. But I did have an idea whilst baking.”

“Whilst baking?” Nick teases.

“Shut up and hear me out or we’ll go up and work out for a few hours instead.”

“It’s like hols for me,” Nick protests. “Intentional exercise prohibited. What’s a’brewin’ in that odd head of yours?”

“So I was wondering, earlier, if you’ve actually done any of those interviews yet, for your series idea.”

“No, it’s been very close to chest. Done about a hundred in my head, though.”

“So I was thinking, and we don’t have to, but I was thinking, you might want to interview me?”

“Sure, sure, already said I would, if this Netflix thing works out, I’ll-”

“It’s gonna work out, with Netflix or some other way. But I was thinking maybe we could do it today, if you wanted, but just, like, for practise? Kind of like a rehearsal, you know? Get you all hyped up for your meeting.”

Nick feels a surge of excitement, the kind he only gets when he allows himself to talk about his dreams out loud.

“Wow, that’s, yeah, yeah, that’s a great idea, actually.”

“Never mind the tone of surprise…I’ve been known to have a good idea once in a while.”

Harry’s obviously quite pleased with himself and Nick knows it’s because Harry’s landed on something Nick’s genuinely excited about doing, so Nick rewards him with a grin instead of rolling his eyes and telling him he’s an idiot, Nick’s knee-jerk reaction to a good percentage of Harry’s ideas in the past, because, let’s face it, he’s cute and he’s charming and he’s talented and he’s surprisingly deep and well-read and all that, but he’s also somewhat an idiot, is Harry, less so now than when they first met, maybe, but still.

“So, I think the living room is arranged the most like your interview set might be, unless you see it different, we can-” Harry’s already on his way out of the kitchen.

“Wait! Like, immediately right now? I can’t. For one, we’re dressed like a pair of old queens, like we’re roleplaying The Birdcage or summat, and I can’t take us seriously.”

“ _Heyyyy_ ,” Harry protests, but ends with a delighted giggle, his chin tilted to good advantage and one hand on a cocked hip. “We really do.”

“And for two, I need a minute to properly gather my thoughts, get my questions in order.”

“But you said you’ve imagined it a hundred times already.”

“Have done, but interview’s got to be tailored to the interviewee. It’s not like a fixed script thing. There’s preparation goes into it. Please don’t tell me, after all the times in studio with me, you still think I’m just chatting away up there, that it’s all done off me natural charisma?”

“Stop,” Harry laughs. “I know you work hard. Did you not ever imagine interviewing me, though?”

Nick doesn’t want to tell him that not letting himself imagine anything at all about Harry, at least not voluntarily, and when he slips up, never, ever for a prolonged time, are two of the first coping skills he had to learn, so he dodges the bullet and says “Course I have. I just need a few minutes to get my thoughts in order and some clothes on that aren’t this ridiculous aubergine satin.”

It’s not just a few minutes but almost an hour later when Nick comes back down, still barefoot but dressed in a dark patterned button up and plaid trousers. Harry’s pushed a leather armchair closer to the sofa and angled it just right to make a conversation area to serve as Nick’s set. He’s put out a couple of bottles of water. He’s also changed into his Carpool Karaoke shirt, open to his butterfly’s arse and worn over pleated pale trousers, well draped, paired with his heinous but apparently beloved for more than a season scuffed Gucci loafers and thick pink socks. He’s topped the ensemble off with a drab cardigan that’s at least two sizes too large, and it’s a toss up in Nick’s mind whether it’s next season’s Gucci or was once Robin’s. Either way, it’s quite the look, and Nick secretly wants to burn everything but the Gucci shirt in a bonfire, then ransack Harry’s closet for a pair of skinny jeans and something in a nice chelsea boot, dress him like a 2013 Harry Styles paper doll, which, come to think of it, Nick had once found a celebrity paper doll site online and, in retrospect, spent an inordinate amount of time dressing and undressing the Harry one.

“‘I’m afraid you’ll have to change again, Grandpa. I still can’t take you seriously.”

“ _Heyyyy._ Does this work, though? Do you need anything else?”

“It’s terrific, really, this is genius idea, and dead nice of you to think of. I’m excited.”

That earns him an eager, toothy smile, Harry’s happy, which is worth…everything.

“Sofa or chair?”

Nick chooses sofa, sits down and watches in surprise as Harry shrugs out of his cardigan, toes off his loafers, then sits and pulls off his socks, dropping them on the floor one by one.

“What’re you doing?” Nick asks.

Harry grins at him. “Compromising,” he answers cheerily, as if it should’ve been obvious.

And Nick’s got to admit, with just his pale pleated trousers and his shirt open down to there, Harry’s transformed himself into some impossibly beautiful matinee idol transported from the golden era, obviously one of the gay ones, but then again…

It’s a little awkward getting started, like play-acting, and they get distracted trying to make each other laugh a time or three, before Nick settles down and Harry seems to forget they’re not just having a chat about something both of them are interested in, pulling one bare foot up onto the seat cushion and rambling on with slowly articulated but ultimately well-nuanced thoughts on the separation of art from the artist, leaning into the conversation, his hands in almost constant motion as if he’s physically touching the blacks and the whites and especially the complex greys of the subject matter. Nick knows just when and how to keep Harry from veering too far off track. A little side road or two is to be expected from Harry and makes for good entertainment, so Nick is patient and rarely interrupts him. Nick knows just when to probe to get something deeper out of him, knows just how to ask things in a way that makes Harry pause and furrow his brow and really think about it before giving his answer. And Nick knows that it’s good, it’s really, really good. He knows it to his bones. It’s the prototype for everything he’s had in mind all this time, and he feels the surge of confidence run through him that he knows Harry intended him to feel, Harry’s gift. Nick hasn’t felt this happy and confident that he knows what he’s doing and is good at it in a long, long time. He stretches, leans back and closes his eyes for a bit, wordlessly signaling that the interview’s over. He means to just bask in the glow for a few minutes, but he’s pumping too much adrenaline to relax.

“Harry, how’ve we never talked about this before? I never knew you felt that way.”

“I never knew I felt that way! Which is the brilliant bit because it’s you brought it out of me. Was that helpful, at all, do you think?”

“Fuck, that was amazing. I’m buzzin’.”

Harry sinks back in his chair, happy. Nick grins at him and spins around on the sofa, punches a pillow and puts his feet up and stretches out facing Harry, and they just go on grinning stupidly at each other without speaking for longer than two people who aren’t best friends or lovers could ever comfortably do.

Nick crashes a little as the adrenaline ebbs away, and his eyes are beginning to droop when Harry gets up and pokes at his ankles. Muscle-memory has Nick drawing up his knees so Harry can sit down and now Nick’s feet are nestled in Harry’s lap and Harry’s got one arm along the back of the sofa and the other’s holding one of Nick’s feet, thumbing Nick’s trigger points like he knows more than a thing or two about reflexology. It all feels so good, Nick just wants to stay like this forever, or at least ’til lunch, and he’s literally willing Harry to pick up the remote control instead of open his mouth and insist on talking things out.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Harry says very precisely. “Important,” he emphasises, dispelling the hope Nick’s clinging to that it’s the lunch menu.

Nick sighs, doesn’t encourage or discourage him, just waits, like waiting on Harry’s his job, which…

“Okay, so, first thing is, it’s fine if none of this interests you, if it isn’t something you want. You can just say so and I’ll move on, no hard feelings, I promise.”

Threat Level Red, Nick thinks, time for more relationship talk, but still he says nothing.

Harry continues without his encouragement, albeit almost tentatively.

“So, remember we were talking on the plane about all the things you could do after your Radio gig ends, and I mentioned you should do something in production?”

Harry pauses, silently insisting Nick engage. Nick contributes a minute nod to remembering the conversation and presses his foot more firmly into Harry’s palm like Pig Dog demanding to be petted.

“And then you told me about your idea, which is genius, and definitely what you should prioritise, but, the thing is, I’d been thinking, for a while before, months actually, about something I was hoping you’d consider doing, with me, I mean, it’d be a work thing, but…for me. With me.”

Nick can see where this is headed and wants to nip it in the bud before it gets too painfully awkward. Nick’s always been one to prefer sarcasm over sympathy and just about anything over pity, except of the self variety.

“That’s really sweet of you, thoughtful and everything, but you needn’t come to my rescue. I’ll sort it out. I don’t want you doing me career favours.”

“No, no! You’ve got it wrong. It’s you who’d be doing me the career favour, a paid favour, but still a favour.”

Harry squeezes Nick’s foot between both hands, a bit too hard, throws his head back and huffs out an exasperated sigh.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! This isn’t coming out right, and I’ve rehearsed it in my head about a million fucking times.”

Nick pulls his feet out of Harry’s lap and sits up, sits cross-legged on the sofa facing Harry, and Harry immediately mirrors him.

“What’re you on about?”

“Just… Hear me out, okay? Try not to make snap judgements.”

“Okaaay?”

“So, last tour, I did that gig in LA with Stevie, remember?”

“You sang bloody Leather and Lace and Landslide and cried like Prom Queen at end, course I remember! She’s totally over your head, but still, legend. Loved it for you. Wished I’d been there for that one.”

“Thanks. I also did a one off with Kacey. You probably didn’t catch that one, but-”

“The Shania one, at the Garden, with her in the metallic rainbow frock. She went a bit flat in parts, if anyone’s asking, but you sounded terrific. What? Don’t look so surprised! I’ve not got a YouTube impairment, have I?”

“No,” Harry chuckles, “apparently not. Okay, so, you know how Taylor had surprise guests at a lot of her Reputation tour shows?”

“That one, she’s got thighs like tree trunks these days, have you seen? Like, she’s proper fit and ready for her own Marvel film. Bought herself some good tits off that 1989 album, as well. You ever get a thank you note for those?”

Harry’s snickering even though he looks like he knows he shouldn’t, and provoking involuntary laughter is Nick’s favourite reaction to get from Harry other than maybe a stiff dick, but even that’s probably only a close second, and not fun at all to think about in context with Taylor Swift.

“You’re awful,” Harry assures him.

“Snake Woman. That can be her superhero name. Or The Ex-Terminator, get it? Or would it be Ex-Terminatrix? Or-”

“Focus…” Harry reminds him. Nick’s attention span has always been a short trip.

“Sure, sure. Sorry. You were saying?”

“I was thinking I’d really like to do something like that on my next tour, like, have a different guest artist for each gig, if I can manage it, which I can’t possibly on my own. And that’s where you come in.”

“Me? Singing on stage with you?” Nick peals with laughter. “Fans’ll be queueing for days. Proper rioting. Forget arenas, it’ll be straight to stadiums, us two.”

“Don’t be a tit, Nick.”

“I’ve been playing it cool,” Nick croons, delighted.

“Oh god.”

“I’ve been playing it-”

“Please stop.”

“I’ve been-”

A Gucci pillow to the face silences him, and Nick notes Harry’s swung it, not thrown it, which means Harry’s still armed, in fact, he’s got his arm cocked back, pillow locked and loaded in his right fist and a threatening furrow between his brows like an angry kitten.

“That’s a throw pillow!” Nick protests.

Harry narrows his eyes suspiciously but doesn’t launch.

“So it’s meant to be thrown, not swu- Ouch!” Nick howls. “Not so hard! The metal threads or summat…I think it cut my lip! Bloody Gucci. Alessandro can fuck right off. Gaudy fucker.”

Harry leans in, peers at him, concerned, then sits back, ignoring Nick’s pout. “You’ll live.”

“If I’ve got fat lip tomorrow, ’s on you.”

“That would be lovely,” Harry smiles, the briefest flash of naughtiness in his expression, the flirt coming to him so naturally that he doesn’t even lose his train of thought, as Nick would do. Nick’s already given it more thought than Harry. Harry’s apparently got a one track mind at the moment.

“So…you don’t like it, then? The guest artists thing?”

“Course I like it! Love a surprise guest. Who’re we thinking?” Now that he’s warmed to the topic, Nick doesn’t give Harry time to respond. “You’ll be able to line up all the Azoff artists, obviously. And Ed’ll do it for you. He’s not precious about guesting. Shawn Mendes. He’s got a proper crush on you. Maybe Matty. Steve Lacy? Ryan Adams, if you want him, but you’ll have to make some upfront decisions on the whole art versus artist thing, who you’re willing to be associated with. Mick Fleetwood would do a set on drums with you. They don’t all have to be solo vocalists.”

“Right. That’s what I was thinking as well. But the thing is-”

“Liam Gallagher. Elton John. Sir Paul.”

“You’re mental,” Harry laughs.

“You don’t know until you ask, though, right? They like you well enough. And for girls, Ariana’ll be up for it. Did you hear she chose you to be stranded on island with? Shania, obviously. And Gaga’s apparently your BFF now, that’ll be wicked. Kelly Clarkson’s always sung your praises. Rita on the Euro leg, obviously. We should have Perrie in there as well. Halsey. Kesha would _kill_ to do it. You could do her Rainbow song, that’s one you can manage well, but you’ve got to stay away from Praying, what a fucking anthem, but it’s a vocal beast, even she struggles with it live, like you do with-”

“Moving swiftly on!” Harry interjects.

Nick gasps and a laugh gurgles out of him.

“Are you going to ask ol’ Swifty for the big tour finale? God, Harry, imagine the chaotic glory of it!”

“Let’s not get carried away.” Harry’s huge grin contradicts his words, and Nick knows he enjoys it when Nick gets carried away, so Nick’s off again.

“It’ll have to be a Two Ghosts, Style mash-up. I can literally hear it in my head, you singing ‘We’re not who we used to be…’ and her strutting out on stage, coming in over you with ‘You’ve got that James Dean daydream look in your eyes…’ Fuck, now I’m living for it.”

“I don’t recommend holding your breath.”

“You never know. She’s working that throwback nice girl image redemption angle pretty hard.”

“She is, in fact, a very nice girl.”

Nick doesn’t argue. He has his own opinions but he’s already moved on.

“Imagine you and Rihanna singing Wild Thoughts. But you’ve already done that one, so… What about Stay? Obvious duet material. And you could also smash Love on the Brain, I think. Or…wait for it! Rude Boy.” Nick fans himself dramatically. “I’d need a minute.”

“ _I’d_ need a minute! Fuck. See? This is why I need you to do it with me.”

“And less fun, there’s the elephant that’ll be in the room, the question of former bandmates to be dealt with. World’s waiting on that choreographed Strip That Down duet, innit?”

“Ha hawww! I think…I think…I might have…a slight…scheduling conflict.”

Nick channels his best Harry impression, and he’s good, he’s very good.

“Ummm…I’m afraid…I’ll have to…regretfully decline…your kind offer. Conflicts with me adult circumcision…”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Liam,” Nick continues in Harry’s voice, “but Taylor said it’s a must.”

“She never did,” Harry giggles, his face nothing but dimples and teeth and crinkles around his eyes. “Also, how’d he get my number?”

“Help me, Jeffrey!” Nick snickers. “Or maybe you’ll be busy having all your tattoos lasered off on Late Late… Ratings in it for JC.”

“Probably less painful than the duet.”

“You’re not wrong. You could do Pillowtalk justice…”

“And now…” Harry stretches the word, “you’ve took the joke too far.”

“Ohhh, she’s still wound-licking,” Nick teases, treading on sensitive territory, but he also knows that it’s always been more about honour and righteous indignation than wounds. Still, he takes the note and manages to settle himself down.

“Seriously, though, the thing is, Taylor makes everything look easy, but it’s a bit of a massive undertaking you’re talking about.”

“Yes, exactly, a massive undertaking, that’s the thing. All the artists will need convincing, and to have a good experience and everything, and also, I’d want the production to be quite different on the guest sets than the rest of my show, and I’ve given it a lot of thought, quite a lot, for a while now, and I’ve even talked very confidentially about it with my team, and…I think you’re the best person for the job.”

“What?” Nick didn’t know he could hit that high note, chokes a bit on his own spit and tries again, reaching cautiously for a lower register. “What?”

“Think about it. You know everyone, anyone I’d want to do it, anyway, and everyone knows you and likes you and trusts you, and-”

“England loves me,” Nick interjects.

“Yes, there’s that,” Harry laughs, “but what I’m saying is you could help me reach out to them and invite them and talk them into it, book them, I mean, and, also, you’ve studied stage design and everything, and it’d be cool if you designed the guest sets as well, ensure a different visual and vibe than the rest of the show. And, just like now, your advice on what songs I should do with them, to showcase the guests but that I can pull off as well, that’d be a big help, and you’d know which ones would work because you know, like, every song, ever. So it’s like, a whole job thing, booking and producing it all, a massive undertaking, like you said, if you were interested in undertaking it.”

Silence ensues.

“Nick?”

Nick can’t feel his face. He can’t feel his face but he’s certain his mouth is hanging open because his tongue’s gone all dry and he thinks maniacally that this is precisely the kind of moment the phrase ‘shit your pants’ was made for and that Harry should’ve thought twice about bringing this up whilst Nick’s sat on his fancy Gucci upholstery.

“It would work best if you could actually come on tour, you know, run it all in person, but if you’re still on Radio, it could be done remote, I guess. I mean, I’d still want you to do it, but it’d be like having two full-time jobs for you, I think, so maybe not as good an arrangement for you, and not nearly as much fun. But if you were to decide you’re not going to be on Radio anyway, if you decide you’re over Radio for a while, or if you get sacked, which’ll never happen but still, then it’d be brilliant to have you come on tour with me, like we’ve talked about, travel the world together, but you wouldn’t just be along for the fun of it or to keep me company. You’d have a proper job, a big job, and also, there’s…well…we’d leave it to admin to get it all sorted, but Jeff says I pay really well, so there’s that. And, it’s no strings attached, I swear, we don’t have to be fucking, you’ll have your own lodging and everything, come and go as you please. It can be just as best mates, if that’s your decision…”

“Nick? Nick? You still with me?”

Nick nods, as much as he can do, which is more of an up-down chin wobble than an actual nod. His eyelids have somehow stuck to his eyeballs in the wide-open position and when the fuck did he get so dehydrated? He manages to get one of them, the left one, unstuck and hopes Harry doesn’t think Nick’s winking at him, because that would be weird, on top of everything, so Nick just keeps that one eye closed to avoid confusion and stares at Harry, unblinking, with the other.

“Okay, good. You’re looking at me weird, like that time you got brain freeze from the piña colada.” Harry waits for Nick to say something, but all Nick manages to do is swallow.

“Okay. So, um, that was the original plan, to ask you, if you would consider doing that, for me, and-” Harry’s words suddenly come out all in a rush. “I swear it’s not like what you said before. I’m not trying to take care of you, or do you any career favours. It’s you who’d be doing me the favour, and I know you have lots of options and I know you can take care of yourself, so don’t think about it like that, okay?”

Harry’s demanding an answer of him again and doesn’t seem to notice that Nick’s drowning. His chest hurts and he’s probably scratched his cornea with his dry eyelid and he thinks he might cry, but he manages another wee nod. He won’t think about it like that. He won’t think about it any way at all, given that he’s pretty certain he’s lost all cognitive function and he’s only still breathing and his heart beating because those things are involuntary reflexes like hard-ons.

“I was going to bring it up during the flight, seemed like good timing, I mean, you couldn’t run away, could you? But then you mentioned the Netflix thing, and I’ve been thinking ever since, that it’s, like, symbiotic, isn’t it, what you want to do and what I want to do? Because you could interview all the guest artists for your series when they meet up with us on tour and, like, I’ll have everything you need to film it on hand already, and some of the best people in the industry on crew, or…you could bring your own crew, if you’d rather, but, big picture, the point is, you could just sit down and do your interviews, maybe dozens of them, while you’re on tour with me. Two birds, one stone and all that.”

Harry whistles out a long sigh, the speech-making portion of his programme apparently over. Nick swallows hard, hasn’t enough spit to speak, so he fumbles for his water bottle and takes a deep pull, clears his throat, has less luck clearing his head.

“Okay. Well. This. This is…that’s quite a lot to take in all in one go.”

“Yes, but…do you hate it?”

Nick buries his face in his hands, counts down from ten, twice, tries and fails to sort out what it is that he’s feeling, to put a name on it, covers the gamut from flattered to freaked out and gives up. He finally looks up between his fingers, grinning like a loon.

“Of _course_ I don’t hate it! Not sure any of it would work, even, but fuck, it’d be fun, wouldn’t it? Bloody terrifying, but fun.”

“Yeah?” Harry sounds incredulous. “Really?” He launches himself at Nick, hugs him so long and so tight that Nick finally bats him away.

“I’ve not said I’ll do it! I’m just saying it’s not the worst idea you ever had. The self-composting pants was probably the worst one, disgusting,” Nick laughs, “or us getting them placenta facials. Ugh. I can still smell ’em.”

Harry giggles at the memory. “I’d’ve thought you’d choose the sports cream as lube, although, to be fair, I didn’t know it was going to heat up as much as it did.”

Nick immediately rolls onto his side, protectively cups his crotch and pulls his knees up, groaning with the painful memory of it. “Fuck, yeah, that’s the one. Gave whole new meaning to the words ‘fire crotch,’ didn’t it? Bloody idiot. I could’ve sued and got that whole 1D fortune off you, retired off it.”

“But then you’d’ve had to tell you sat in ice bucket and cried for Eileen.”

Nick shakes off the literal painful memory, manages to refocus.

“You make it sound simple but you’ve got to write and record another whole album first and then get it to market and book the tour, and that’s all maybe a longer time than I have left on Radio. And I have to work out a proper notice at BBC, no matter what I’m doing next. No one wants a scandal or hard feelings. I won’t bite the hand what’s fed me. And then there’s-”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Fuck, I gave more’n a year and a half notice I wasn’t re-signing. But that’s all just details of how it gets done. It’s only if you want to or not that really matters.”

“Holy fuck. Holy fuck, Harry. I think my bollocks are in my throat and my dick hard all at the same time, which is a first.” Nick laughs, guttural and dirty. “I quite like it.”

And sweet relief, they’re laughing, Harry's laugh high and bright, Nick's throaty and loud, and for a moment they’re both giddy with the possibilities of it, and Nick allows himself to imagine, to be excited, and he still feels like he’s stood on a rocking boat instead of solid ground, maybe more than ever, but he’s always liked a boat ride, hasn’t he?

Harry scoots up next to him, takes one of Nick’s hands in both of his, and he’s got that earnest, almost wet-eyed look on his face that Nick knows spells trouble. Harry swallows hard and Nick watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down and wants to put his hands over Harry’s mouth or maybe gag him with the gaudy Gucci pillow to stop him saying whatever it is he’s going to say next.

When Harry finally speaks, his voice is very deep and quiet and a little unsteady.

“Nick.” Harry clears his throat, starts again. “Nicholas. I know I’ve got distracted, in past, by a lot of things, and, um, people, and I know I was nearly always away, and I know I was scared to admit what it was I was feeling, at the start, telling myself we only ever snogged, or wanked each other off and stuff, because I was drunk and stoned, and so it didn’t mean anything, and I’m _really_ sorry for all that. And I know I kind of messed you about, and it took me a long time to just be who I am and comfortable with it, and I know the abuse you took on account of being friends with me, and I know how hard it all was on you, and I can’t blame you if you don’t want to try things with me again, I won’t, blame you, I swear, but Nick, you said earlier not to say that you’re the man I love, but it’s true. You are. Still.”

Harry whooshes out a big breath, clearly relieved he’s got it said, and that’s well and good for Harry, Nick thinks, but Nick’s pretty certain he’s having an aneurysm, that his circuitry’s overloaded once and for all. He wonders how far away the nearest A&E is. He wonders if he dies here in this very unsafe for houseguests safe house of Harry’s, if poor Eileen will ever know what happened to him and manage to get his body home to Oldham, or if Jeff will just bury the evidence, plant his lifeless body underneath some tree that grows in Brooklyn so as not to have any scandal around Harry’s career.

“Nick?”

“Harry, give it a minute, will you? You’ve been thinking about this but I’ve not been thinking about this, not been expecting this, and it’s, it’s like, a lot to take in.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you should know. It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to work with me and not tell you the rest of it, how I feel. I really want us to try again, Nick. I’ve grown up some, more than you realise, I think. And that stuff you said about us not being best mates? That was rubbish.”

Nick clings frantically to Plan C like it’s a life preserver, and it just might be. He’s going under for sure this time, and his life begins to flash before his eyes. It’s mostly Harry, it’s always mostly Harry, isn’t it, teenage Harry turned up out of nowhere on his doorstep at near dawn, drunk and horny and scared, Harry with his hands over Nick’s eyes before showing him the Enjoy sign for the first time, Harry asleep on Nick’s sofa with Puppy drooling in his arms, Harry photographed a world away wearing Nick’s missing shirt, Nick waking up to nothing but a Harry-shaped indentation in his bed.

Kick, for fuck’s sake, kick, kick.

“Look, this is, like I said, a lot. And Monday’s really big for me, too big for me to blow on account of getting distracted by all your ideas and all…” he waves his hand between them, “this.”

Harry looks hurt, licks his lips and then, predictably, persists to get what he wants.

“Of course. We can wait until after your meeting to talk about it more, but you’re straight back to London, you said, and, I guess I can arrange to come with you, but it’s not entirely fair for you to put your career ahead of us when just last night you wanted me to put you ahead of mine, and I did, and I promised you, and I really meant it, Nick, it wasn’t just talk, and we shut off our phones, and you said you bet me anything I wanted, and I said what if it was you I wanted, and you said-”

“I said I’d think about it, Harry. I didn’t say we were on again. I don’t know if I can try the whole ‘try again’ thing, again, with you. I don’t know if I’m up for it.”

Harry looks gutted, and Nick gently disentangles himself from him and stands up, making a show of stretching and popping his spine.

“My back hurts. I think I’m jet lagged after all. And for the record? Talking it out is way more exhausting than fucking it out ever was. I’m just gonna go up to mine and have a kip, if that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Harry says, forlorn. “Have mine. Has the telly.”

“I’ll be fine.”

"It’s gone past lunch. I’ll bring something up for you.”

“No, please. I’ll be fine. Just-”

“We could watch a film later, if you want, when you wake up? And not talk?”

“Sure, sure. That’d be nice.” Nick turns to go.

“Nick?”

Nick stops in the doorway, having almost made a clean escape. He senses danger, Threat Level Yellow, and doesn’t turn around. Harry doesn’t let that stop him.

“I don’t believe you’re not still in love with me, at least a little bit. I don’t believe it.”

Nick’s just trying to get away, he needs away, but at Harry’s words something snarls and tangles inside him, and it isn’t the breakfast eggs or the bacon. He feels weak, like he might be sick. He doesn’t know what to say, how to express that Harry’s got Nick at his mercy and is being relentless and as selfish as ever, making him weak just when he most needs to be strong, and he actually does wish in the instant that he hadn’t run into Harry on the plane. He doesn’t know how to put all that into words, so when he turns around he just repeats Harry like he can’t believe what he’s heard, because he can’t, quite.

“You don’t…believe…I’m not…in love with you…”

“At least a little bit,” Harry qualifies, sounding less certain now.

Nick’s already a drowning man, so he decides to be honest and tell Harry that he’s an arrogant, narcissistic little shit and that he’s wrong, that not everyone in the world falls in love with him, or maybe they do, initially, but they don’t seem to stay in love with him for long, do they, least of all Nick, but what comes out instead is

“Neither did Meshach. Or any other man I’ve tried to date for more’n a week since circa 2012.”

Harry looks gutted, stands up. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry if being friends with me’s fucked up your other relationships, but what I care about is our relationship, and I’m not giving up on it, on us, that easy, and you shouldn’t have gave up on us so easy either.”

Nick’s tired, he’s so very tired of everything somehow revolving around Harry, of Nick himself revolving in and out of orbit around Harry, and in that moment he doesn’t like Harry very much, for the first time in ever, which is somehow stunningly liberating. There’s no real anger in him, and his voice is as conversational as if he were on Radio, even though he knows perfectly well it’s got a knife’s blade hidden in it.

“It’s been, what, Harry? Eight years? Nine? Trust me. It was _anything_ but easy.”


	4. A Fish, Out of Water

  _You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car,_  
_but because they sing a song only you can hear._  
_Oscar Wilde_

In the relative safety of his own room, Nick changes into a comfy tee and an athletic trouser, then surprises himself and doesn’t obsess or brood or toss and turn. He really is exhausted, mentally and physically, and he starts his countdown from 100 and falls asleep quickly and thankfully wakes up over two hours later, according to Harry’s watch, feeling mostly sane again and not quite so uncomfortably out of control of his environment. Harry’s nowhere to be found when Nick comes looking for his very late lunch and, hopefully, a make-up rom-com. He checks Harry’s bedroom and en suite, explores the living room and downstairs loo, even goes down to the garage to see if Harry’s car’s gone missing. Riding back up in the lift, he notices for the first time that there’s a 4 and a 5 button, as yet unexplored territory. He chooses 5.

The lift opens, not onto a hallway or room, but onto a catwalk on the roof, thick rubber mats leading to discreetly screened air conditioning units and exhaust fans and such. One step out of the lift is enough to curb Nick’s desire to physically explore any further. Beyond the row of brownstones, there are taller buildings at distances not so far away, and Nick wonders how many people can see him stood here on the roof of Harry Styles’ secret safe house. But it isn’t the equipment that’s interesting to Nick, or who’s behind the windows of nearby buildings, or the rubber mats from which he’d surely topple to his death on a posh street whose name he doesn’t even know. What’s interesting lies in the middle of the catwalk that encircles it on all four sides, an enormous slightly domed semi-opaque glass-paned round skylight, itself as large as any room Nick’s seen in the house below. Even from this close, Nick can’t see down through it, but the artist in him admires the architectural triumph of it, the suspension of the multitude of panes looking like a stained glass window, just without the stain. Nick steps back into the lift and presses 4, hopes to find Harry there, rehearses his apology for about the fifth time.

Nick finds Harry swimming in a narrow indigo tiled lap pool not more than four or five metres long that seems to have just enough current running through it to keep Harry mostly swimming in place. Harry has his head down, rolling it to the side for a breath every so often, swimming hard, and Nick wonders how long he’s been going like this. He watches Harry’s broad shoulders cutting through the water, his feet kicking, his naked arse rising above his own wake from time to time. It’s hard to tear his eyes away, but he's seen Harry's arse before and Nick’s far too curious about the rest of his surroundings to keep staring. He’s in a magical room, an indoor oasis. Sunlight pours through the glass ceiling, throwing prisms of multi-coloured light everywhere, and whether by trickery or sorcery or some other strange alchemy, the glass that appeared semi-opaque from up above is almost transparent from below, and the sky over Nick’s head is a startling clear blue with a wisp of cloud and a plane passing through. There are tall tropical plants in enormous glazed pots, an efficient small gym tucked discreetly to one side, a couple of wide cushioned sun loungers, a massive stone table flanked by sculptural metal benches, an oversized swing tethered to a high beam, Nick makes a mental note to revisit that later, an outdoor shower behind an intricately carved screen and what appears to be a cooking island and wet bar. Nick isn’t sure he’s quite taken it all in when his reverie is broken by a splash of water at his feet.

“Sunroom,” Harry observes, as if Nick’s possibly not noticed. “Pool. Makes having no garden bearable.”

“This is… I’m lost for words.”

“Grimmy, lost for words? That’s a first.”

“Wow, this is an incredible space. I mean, it’s not Architectural Digest, but I’m getting a mini SoHo House vibe from it. I’m liking it. I’m liking it. Great party space.”

“I’ve not had any parties. Like I said, I’ve kept this house strictly private. No one knows about it except a very elderly solicitor back home, who I’m pretty sure has never even heard of me or One Direction.”

“No one?”

“Well, my mum knows. She’s been once. She likes it. She might've mentioned it to Gem.”

“Jeff?”

“Last I checked, Jeff wasn’t my mum.”

“Fair impression, though, you have to admit.”

“Sometimes.”

“Just Anne and maybe Gemma and me?”

“Just Mum and maybe Gemma and you. Y’alright Nick?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry about earlier, love. Sensory overload, I reckon. Nerves.”

“I’m sorry as well, for overwhelming you like that, for everything. No more talking it out today, I promise.”

Harry smiles up at him, easy as ever, good will restored, and Nick’s grateful for it but, thanks to his therapist, recognises one of his and Harry’s patterns, glossing over their disagreements and issues with apologies or sex or distance put between them and moving quickly on without actually confronting or resolving any underlying issues.

“Fancy a swim?”

“Sure, yeah! Never swam in a pool like this before though, with the current.”

“Endless pool, is what they call it. Good exercise. Current’s a bit tricky at first, until you get the hang of staying midstream, but I can help steady you at first. There’s no stairs, just the ladder there.”

Nick peels easily out of his tee and trousers, taking his briefs along as he goes. For once in his life, and ironically well past his supposed prime, he isn’t feeling his customary degree of self-consciousness. Nick’s mostly called off his longterm relationship with Ronald McDonald, and also, life with Mesh, who’s at least as fit as Harry, maybe even more, because let’s face it, Harry’s still mostly lank and lean, and Mesh works at it even more relentlessly than Harry, is even more limber than Harry, on account of Mesh being a dancer and Harry’s lower back issues, and now that he’s thought of it, the fact that Mesh is even more bendy than Harry is something Nick needs to work into polite conversation at some point, take Harry down a peg or two, but the point is, life with Mesh has helped tone Nick into the fittest he’s ever been, his body’s not yet gone to the dogs, and since Harry liked him plenty well enough before, Nick figures now he can only be considered an upgrade, Nick version 2.0, or 3.0, or 5.0…he and Harry’ve been on and off again more times than he can count, except it’s seven times, all right? It’s seven major times and loads of other minor times, but the point is Nick 7.0 is fitter than Harry’s accustomed. Nick doesn’t stand preening poolside like Harry would no doubt do, and, ignoring the ladder and also the urge to cannonball in like a twelve year old, he lowers himself into the water without making a splash. The water’s warm and the current gently drawing at him from the middle is…interesting. Harry’s pressed up close to the wall and waves for Nick to take centre of pool.

“Be my guest.”

Once at the centre, the pull of the current almost immediately takes Nick off his feet and he begins to swim instinctively rather than drown. Why does being around Harry always have to involve me drowning? Nick wonders. He’s getting the hang of it, the feel of it, when he strokes too hard and goes off course, his head banging soundly into the side of the pool. He takes in a mouth full of water and chokes, his head goes under and he comes up spluttering, clinging to Harry’s arm and the side of the pool.

“Fuck!”

Harry’s laughing happily. “That’s the dodgy part. You have to stroke just hard enough, but not too hard, like sex.”

Nick pushes himself back out to centre.

“Could’ve said so earlier,” Nick complains. "I’m well expert at sex.” He’s struggling to stand.

“Ten out of ten, can confirm.”

Nick lets himself be taken by the current, finds his stroke, and soon he’s staying nicely at centre, mostly. Harry reaches out his left hand and anchors Nick low on his hip, helping him stay a steady distance from the side of the pool. Nick’s strokes aren’t always even, his right arm is stronger than his left, and if Harry’s hand sometimes slides over his bare arse before finding his hip again, well, Nick’s sure it isn’t on purpose, that is, he thinks he’s sure until he feels Harry’s right hand, palm up, in the middle of his chest, and is he sinking or…? He’s still swimming hard but he must be threatening to sink if Harry needs to keep him afloat from below. Nick kicks harder, surging forward, and Harry’s hand slides down his chest, fluid, fingertips barely trailing but decidedly there, down his chest and down, down and pausing briefly, tangling in his hairy wet pubes, and then on to his defenseless dick, which is bobbing along beneath him like a worm on a fishing line, and there’s cupping, definitely cupping, followed by what could only be described as an exploratory grope, whereupon Nick takes on a huge lungful of water, forgets to keep kicking and promptly sinks like a stone, fucking again with the drowning, will he ever learn? He comes up spluttering, his hair lying waterlogged over his forehead. Nick clings dramatically to the side of the pool beside Harry, thankfully out of the treacherous current.

“You _drowned_ me!”

“Sorry!” Harry laughs, his eyes bright, the sun sparkling off his teeth. “I couldn’t resist.”

In the moment, Nick can’t resist either, Harry with his wet fringe in his eyes, his tattoos on display and his patchy little struggle-rug of chest hair, which Nick thinks is adorable, but ironically, considering the aggressively natural state of Nick’s own chest rug, he’d personally rather not be there, except that he’s got a sudden urge to rub his nose in it and floss his teeth with it, which… He’ll apparently have to reconsider his policy on Harry’s chest hairs, all twenty-odd of them. Fuck.

“Like a soft wet grope, me,” Nick manages.

Harry steps away from Nick’s side and stands in front of him, his feet at either side of Nick’s feet, so close Nick can feel Harry’s dick, which is, this is news, hard as a pneumatic drill. Harry leans in and slowly, agonizingly licks an uninterrupted wide path from Nick’s shoulder blade all the way up his throat and over his scruffy jawline until he can whisper directly into Nick’s ear.

“What about a hard wet grope?”

Harry’s using his deep-throaty seduction voice and thrusts his hips gently forward, his cock stiff against Nick’s groin. His hand is at Nick’s hip again.

“Unf,” Nick squeaks, debonair as ever. He isn’t proud of it. He’s always been a slag for wet sex, always been a slag for Harry, especially his deep-throaty seduction voice, all of which Harry knows perfectly well and apparently isn’t ashamed to use to his full advantage. “We were going to watch a film."

“Fucking it out was also mentioned.”

Harry hooks his right ankle around Nick’s left, tethering them together, slides his hand to Nick’s waist, back down to his thigh, but he leaves Nick’s dick out of it for the moment, even though it’s thickening up at record speed for a man Nick’s age, and Nick would rather show that off than not, he reckons. Harry murmurs huskily against his ear again, their hips now slotted against each other, and the strong water current still running just behind Harry’s arse is frotting them relentlessly together like it’s on Harry’s payroll.

“Hey Nick?” Harry mouths Nick’s neck again. “There’s two of us in here, both of us famous. Is this a hot enough tub for you?”

“Ungf.”

Harry’s not ever been one to take his foot off the pedal. “It’ll be almost like doing it outside up here.” Harry pauses to suck the skin just underneath Nick’s ear, rubs their chests together, frots him relentlessly, and Nick realises it’s not been the current at all. “It’ll be like us fucking outside…in broad daylight…in public.”

It’s a definite ‘yes’ for Nick’s dick, Harry’s straight through to judge’s houses, but Nick’s carefully cultivated sense of self-preservation chimes in, and he finally remembers to kick.

_Abort! Abort! Abort!_

Self-preservation, Nick’s learning, is a real cockblocker. Nick exercises every ounce of willpower he has, slides out of Harry’s grasp and propels himself out of the pool to relative safety. He tries not to acknowledge the fact that his knob’s now in plain view, forcing its way into the conversation and bobbing insistently between them, clearly pantomiming “Oi! Oi! I’ll have a go!” Nick doesn’t let his dick do the talking, or the thinking, for that matter, just this once, and says instead

“I’m just, I’m gonna rinse off, I think, and then let’s do the film or summat, all right?”

Harry’s stood motionless in the pool, looking at him quizzically, his bottom lip pouted out, and when Nick comes back from the outdoor shower, his trousers damp and clinging to his legs and his tee shirt twisted up into a turban around his hair, Harry’s gone again.

Nick goes back down to his room, takes an actual shower, shampoos his hair, then shapes it into as much of a quiff as current length will allow. He shaves and applies all the lotions and potions he hopes are the secret to eternal youth, hell, at this point, who’s he kidding, he’ll settle for eternal mid-thirties. He gets dressed, proper adult clothes with buttons and zips, concedes to socks but not shoes. His stomach’s rumbling and breakfast seems a long, long while ago and he’s had nothing to drink except pool water.

He goes in search of remedy, finds Harry in the kitchen, hair still damp, wearing a tissue sheer white button up not quite buttoned up and left untucked over loose fit pale wash jeans Nick recognises as more Gucci. He’s assembling greens in a wooden bowl. Two still raw fish filets are laid out on a baking board with little slices of lemon and something green sprinkled on top. There’s a bottle of white wine open, and he watches Harry pour a little straight onto the fish.

“Hiya,” Nick croons, feeling that serotonin rush again.

“Hi,” Harry says softly, but his expression’s open and his smile’s uncomplicated, and Nick’s relieved he doesn’t seem too bothered about being turned down earlier.

“You didn’t have lunch, so I thought we’d skip to early dinner, watch a film or two and go to bed early.”

“Never been so happy to see a fish.”

Nick settles comfortably onto a stool and begins happily grazing from a charcuterie board of pickles, olives, dried fruits, crackers and cheese that Harry materialises from the fridge and sets in front of him with a flourish.

“Mmphft. You’ve outdone yourself. Mmm…”

“Good! Wine?”

“Sure.”

Nick watches as Harry pours a goblet of white, sets it down in front of him.

“Mine’s here somewhere…” Harry looks around, spies a quarter-full highball glass by the sink, brings it over and holds it up, waiting for Nick to raise his wine glass in toast.

“Hey, hey, what’s that you’re having?”

“Mezcal. Second.”

It’s only then that Nick realises Harry’s a little loose-limbed already, and recklessly decides to join him.

“Fuck wine,” Nick laughs. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Harry sets Nick’s wine aside, brings another glass and a dark bottle of Casamigos Mezcal to the island, fusses about cutting slices of orange and lime, getting Nick’s drink just right. “Neat or rocks?”

Nick eyes Harry’s drink, neat. “Rocks.”

Harry raises his glass and Nick mirrors him.

“To good food, hopefully, and rom-coms with only happy endings.”

“Happy endings,” Nick toasts.

Nick’s on his second drink and Harry beginning his third as Harry sets a plate and silverware in front of Nick, leaning past his shoulder, deep into Nick’s personal space. Harry pulls back but doesn’t step away, and looks at Nick intently. The height of the stool Nick’s sat on gives Harry a bit more height advantage than usual. Harry reaches for his glass, takes a deep pull, sets it down very precisely.

“What if I want to kiss you?”

Nick tips his own glass. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone. He tilts his chin up.

“What if you did?”

Nick doesn’t know what he expected, probably for Harry to pounce on him like a kitten on catnip, clamber into his lap as if he isn’t bigger than Nick now and tongue-fuck his mouth until Nick comes in his pants like it’s the 90’s, which…

Instead, Harry blinks, looks surprised at the permission implied in Nick’s question and body language, runs a hand through his hair and straightens his collar and takes a deep breath. He leans slowly towards Nick, laces his fingers behind Nick’s neck and strokes Nick’s jaw with his thumbs. His eyes are dark and asking Nick a million questions just before he slots his mouth onto Nick’s and gently licks his way in. They both taste of citrus and the dark smoke of mezcal, and Nick’s mouth is cold from the ice and Harry’s is warm, hot even, by comparison, and Nick lets Harry lick fire into his mouth and steal his breath and he hasn’t even got his wits about him well enough to start kissing him back properly before Harry withdraws, kissing him once more on the lips and resting his forehead against Nick’s for a second before standing to full height, an enigmatic smile on his face.

“Fish.”

Nick’s head’s left spinning, a result he suspects Harry intends, but Nick tells himself the dizzy feeling’s just because he’s so hungry, and that he’s not disoriented at all. Harry’s kitchen. New York City. America. Everything’s good. Everything’s fine. Nick can find his way home perfectly well from here, especially once he's got his iPhone back.

Dinner’s delicious and they chat easily as they eat, telling stories with their mouths full, staying on safe territory, mostly squabbling over what to watch on telly later.

“I vote for Notting Hill,” Harry says. “This weekend’s definitely got a Notting Hill vibe. Glamorous Famous unexpectedly come to stay, that’s you. Bumbling yet irresistibly charming host, that’s me.”

“You always want Notting Hill. I miss my dogs. How about Marley and Me?”

“Absolutely not! You tricked me on that one. I never cried so hard. It’s not even a rom-com, definitely not a comedy. What about Music and Lyrics? Or Nine Months? Love Actually’s better saved for Christmas hols.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Nick laughs gleefully. “How’ve I never put two and two together? You’ve got a specific hard-on for Hugh Grant!”

Harry puts away the last clean dish, turns around and leans back against the far cabinet, crossing his legs at the ankle, spreading his arms wide and resting his hands on the counter, his casually turned-up sleeves baring the tattoos littering his forearms. His broad wingspan pulls his shirt wide open and it looks like a menagerie could take flight from his chest if Nick could just cast the right spell. And Nick knows what lies beneath the slightly more than fashionable bulge underneath Harry’s flies and it’s truly unfair for a natural state, and although Harry makes a calculated effort not to broadcast what he’s packing in public these days, among friends he’s less concerned with containment of his attributes. Nick longs for his phone, because what a photo this would make, it’s like the cover of GQ and Attitude come to life right in front of him and would come in handy in future.

“Hugh’s a very handsome man. And charming.”

Honestly Nick’s been so engrossed in his study of Harry’s junk that he’s lost the plot and doesn’t care any longer.

“Hugh Grant marathon it is,” he agrees.

“Um…living or bedroom?”

“Sofa’s rubbish, like you said. Same rules though.”

“No phones, no snogging, no line blurring, no relationship talk. Laddy lads only. Have I forgot anything?”

“Snacks. And water. Maybe the Mezcal.”

“I have snacks. Lots of snacks.” Harry stows two tall bottles of Voss under each armpit before gathering popped cheesy corn, cherry whips, Hobnobs, Jaffa Cakes, Monster Munch, he’s found himself a proper British grocer in Tribeca or wherever the hell they are, Nick thinks, watching as Harry adds fruit pastilles and the Mezcal.

“Was I ever this demanding when I was staying at yours?”

Nick laughs at his question. “Darling, you’re this demanding all the time.”

Harry gestures that his hands are full. “Are you going to help with any of this?”

Nick just shrugs and sashays towards the lift. “I’m the guest, aren’t I?” He grins when Harry leans down and takes the salt and vinegar crisp bag between his teeth.

“Yer suth ung ath-ole,” Harry manages, following him to the lift, where Nick delightedly refuses to even press the 3 button for him.

Once in his bedroom, Harry tumbles everything onto his chest of drawers and immediately starts shedding his clothes.

“I’m gonna grab a quick shower, wash the chem off my hair. Just start without me. Telly’s a smart one, so no wandering off onto the internet or YouTube or anything, not even the news. Only Netflix.”

“Okay, bossy! I wasn’t gonna. I’ve got some self-restraint, you know. More’n you, I’m pretty sure. Gonna just go down for my pyjamas.”

Harry toes off his jeans, scratches absent-mindedly at his happy trail where it thickens and disappears into his black briefs.

“Suit yourself.”


	5. A Spoon, Full of Sugar

_ If you are not long, I will wait for you all my life.   Oscar Wilde  _

It’s such a subtle thing, a thing of such minute increments, that Nick thinks it might actually be subconsciously done on both their parts. They start out each on his own side of the bed, the space between them littered with snack options, but by the end of Notting Hill, that distance has closed, probably mostly due to sharing the Mezcal bottle. Every amusing observation about the film, every yawn, every sigh, every stretch and slight adjustment to position that either of them makes draws them as inexorably together into the middle of the bed as if they were magnetised, or from Nick’s perspective, planets being drawn into the vortex, a black hole, until here Harry is, lying pressed up against Nick with his head on Nick’s shoulder and Nick’s fingers idly, reflexively massaging his scalp and fiddling with his still barely damp curls. Nick allows his whole body to melt into it, and Harry senses the shift in him and closes the last inch, smoothly moves into his well-accustomed nook, lying almost half-atop Nick, his head burrowed underneath Nick’s chin, one side of his face pressed to Nick’s chest, one thigh heavy over Nick’s and a bony knee and ankle that will leave familiar and not entirely unwelcome bruises on Nick's shin.

“S’just a cuddle,” Harry murmurs, thumbing the remote so that the volume lowers and the light from the telly glows dim and blue, just the way Nick prefers for sleeping. “Cuddling wasn’t disallowed.”

When Nick doesn’t object, he feels Harry’s whole body relax and the rhythm of his breathing shift a measure closer to sleep. Before long, Harry rolls over, as Nick knew he would, and Nick rolls with him without second-guessing it. Harry settles on his side with his back against Nick’s chest, the curve of his arse barely a fraction from the notch of Nick’s crotch. Nick’s arm slides around him instinctively and, like the night before, he wishes lying on this unfamiliar mattress with Harry nestled in his arms didn’t feel so much like coming home. He thinks back to 2014, perhaps as coupled as he and Harry would ever be, if they’d ever been truly coupled, and Nick conjures up the exact image of Harry sweetly telling Smallzy that he preferred being the ‘little spoon’. Back in the day, Nick had watched that interview an embarrassing number of times, warmed by the knowledge that Harry was thinking of him when he said it, of their innocent spooning and their eventually not so innocent spooning, and Nick had felt proud and protective and incredibly possessive when he’d seen the softness, the sweet happiness radiating through Harry in that moment, captured for all time and for all the world to see.

And of all the shitting things Nick doesn’t need right now, on top of everything else he’s dealing with, he doesn’t need his dick to take over the remembering.

The thing is, Nick is weak, he readily admits, to himself at least, so weak for everything about Harry. Harry’s always been able to keep his cards much closer to chest than Nick, keep his game face on, not that he’s emotionally detached, he isn’t, not usually, he’s just always been very, very good at maintaining his composure. There’s really only one thing Nick’s discovered that strips Harry of all reserve, and that thing, quite happily, is Nick’s tongue. Harry, though younger, almost always has the upper hand in their relationship, had done so long before Harry ever realised and began to take full advantage of the fact, and Harry’s quite persistent when he wants to be and has lots of ways of getting what he wants - hints, flirts, pouts, seductions, barters, displays of greater strength of both body and will, but the only thing Harry’s ever wanted enough to _beg_ for, once he’d first had it, is Nick’s tongue. He’d shouted _“Jesus, Fuck!”_ and come straight up off the mattress, and to Nick’s delight, had finished, his dick untouched, before Nick’d hardly even begun, embarrassingly quickly, even, quivering and whimpering his orgasm spasmodically into Nick’s sheets, his hips stuttering in involuntary conflict between compulsively thrusting and frantically presenting rear.

Nick’s fond laugh had gently mocked him as he rose to blanket Harry’s back, pressing him deep into the mattress, lifting his long hair and licking the salt from his neck.

“Well, well, well. Harry Styles from One Direction is easy for a bit of tongue in his arse, good to know. That’s worth a mention on Radio.”

Harry, still panting, didn’t protest. He just lay slack underneath Nick and kept babbling breathy blasphemous prayers into Nick’s pillow, muffled but absolute music to Nick’s ears.

“Unnngh. Oh my _god_. Jesus, fuck! That was…unghhh. Thank you. Phew. Thank you. That was… _Fuck!_  Thank you.”

Always exceptionally polite, Harry.

Nick, of course, prides himself on being anything but polite in bed, and having discovered Harry’s newest kink, fully extorted it and determinedly withheld it from him, never once coming ’round the back door with his mouth again. Nick’s enjoyment rose tenfold over the days as he observed Harry grow progressively more frustrated, Harry’s efforts to conveniently position himself and his not-so-subtle nudges of Nick’s head and Nick’s feigned oblivious skirts and dodges, Harry’s blushing allusions but apparent inability to voice the words, his initially tentative but ultimately enthusiastic return of the favour. Nick would be lying to say that having Harry do that to him, something so blindingly intimate, something he knew Harry'd never done before, hadn’t been a mad turn on, but it paled in comparison to the sexiest thing Nick’s ever experienced Harry do in bed, which was when Harry finally broke down and begged him for it.

They’d been spooned in Nick’s bed, pretty much like right now, Harry’s back to Nick’s chest, watching one of the Simpsons reruns that disses the Grammys, when Harry wriggled against him and huffed in frustration, huffed and squirmed and tossed his head about on Nick’s pillow until finally…

”Kiss me, _please_ , would you? I want you to kiss me.”

Nick, who knew perfectly well what was wanted of him, amused himself by tilting Harry back in his arms and kissing him gently on the lips. Harry kissed him back, deepened the kiss, content for a moment, then huffed against his lips.

“ _Niiiiick._ I meant _kiss_ me, like you did the other night. That was so fucking hot. I can’t stop thinking about it. I want it. Fuck. Don’t make me beg.”

Nick pulled back and grinned at him, smug and turned on beyond all reason.

“Late for that, innit?”

“ _Pleeease,_ I want it,” Harry had whined into his mouth, then begun sucking Nick’s tongue rhythmically, deep and frantic and filthy, fucking his own throat with Nick’s tongue, something else new on the menu, and Nick liked it. He liked every fucking thing about it. Nick reluctantly broke the kiss, both of them panting now from arousal and lack of oxygen.

“Tell me what you want, love, and I’ll give you it.”

“Arrrrghhh,” Harry protested against his lips, sucking desperately on Nick’s tongue again, then broke.

“Your tongue on me. Like you did the other night, and…I swear…I’ll do _anything_ you want after, I’ll…I’ll do the microphone thing with your dick…I’ll…whatever you want, just, god, _fuck_ , don’t make me beg.”

“Again, you’re already begging,” Nick teased gently, but he was already shifting down the mattress, already easing Harry over onto his stomach, and Harry was squirming in relief and anticipation, giving up, giving in, getting what it was that he wanted, as per usual. Nick took a moment to enjoy the view, the sprinkling of dark hair across Harry’s upper thighs and into the valley between, the sightline over the lush crest of his arse, the dimpled dip at the base of his spine, the bunched muscles of his back and the rippling spread of his shoulders and his fists clenching the pillow and the hair beginning to dampen and curl on his nape. Nick took it all in, made a memory of it, then closed his eyes.

_“Please, fuck, yes… aaaahuhhh… nnnggg… fuuuuuu…...k.”_

It was precedent setting, Harry Styles begging him for it, and in consequence, Harry never once, ever, got tongued, not by Nick at least, without first being made to beg for it, at least a little. It became Nick’s favourite sexual head game in all the world, and one of his top five go-tos for wanking, and just remembering it now makes him harder than he’s been in ages, which is neither timely or intended or prudent or, apparently, private.

Harry, as if sensing a change again, not just in Nick’s body, but in his very thoughts, snugs his hips impossibly deeper into Nick’s notch, Nick’s now helplessly hardening aubergine satin-clad dick pressed against the thin layer of cotton covering Harry’s bum. If Harry’s awake, he doesn’t let on. Nick tries to distract himself with tried and true turn-offs while willing his hips away from Harry’s warm body.

_Filing down Mum’s bunions, Piers Morgan’s breath, finding Aimee changing Sunday’s poopy nappy on the kitchen counter, sit down meetings with Big Boss Ben, insufficiently chewed martini olives clogging the shower drain the morning after, first dates, last dates, the Payne chain…_

Harry stirs, his hips shifting marginally, but just enough to make full contact with Nick’s dick again, and even though Nick immediately pulls back, it isn’t like Harry’s not one to recognise a stiff dick against his arse-crack perfectly well, and Nick knows that he has, noticed, because Harry isn’t wheezing anymore, doesn’t even seem to be breathing, not for so long that Nick wonders if he’s died in his sleep and Nick should roll him over and pump his chest or something, and if there’s one thing Nick doesn’t want to be, it’s the man who let Harry Styles die on his watch, millions of grief-crazed fans turning on him wouldn’t exactly make for a quality of life improvement, as if Harry being dead wouldn’t be enough problem by itself, and Nick’s just about to prod Harry in the ribcage when the subject takes a very deep breath and sits up, then gets out of bed and ambles to the en suite without a backward glance. Well then. False alarm. Nick maniacally wonders if he can somehow manage a wank and destroy the evidence before Harry gets back from his wee, but instead he just brings his knees up and curls into himself miserably, feels the interest aroused by his trip down memory lane seep out of his slowly deflating dick.

Nick hears the toilet flush and peeks through one eye and watches as Harry comes back into the dimly lit bedroom, something in his hands, probably a flannel, Nick decides, and as Harry passes in front of the blue glow of the telly, Nick’s pretty certain Harry’s sporting a quarter-chub, although it could just be really, really good pants, which…he’ll have to check out the brand in the morning. Nick snaps his eye shut and tries not to have seen, but feels the traitorous stir between his own legs again and, fuck, he can practically feel Plan C and months of progress in therapy slipping from his grasp.

Kick. Kick.

He’s just settled upon making a dignified retreat, to feign sleep, roll to the far side of the bed and put his back to Harry, but Harry slides underneath the sheets and right back into the cradling spoon of Nick’s body before Nick’s even completed the thought. Harry’s curls are all up in Nick’s face, his legs precisely mirroring the sharp bend of Nick’s, and his arse is tucked snuggly into Nick’s crotch, and before Nick can help himself, Nick thinks that they fit each other, fit together so perfectly, still, although Harry’s body has changed entirely since the first time Nick held him like this, has lengthened and widened and thickened and hardened, and Nick’s not so very much. Nick squeezes his eyes tight and counts calming breaths like his therapist’s taught him, like he’s been practicing, cognitive behavioural therapy for better sleep hygiene and emotional emergencies such as this.

100, 99, 98, 97, 96…

He’s down to around 60 when Harry starts wriggling, not against him, exactly, but squirming, and as the sheets slightly pull and he hears the scritch of fabric and feels the muscles of Harry’s back strain, feels Harry’s arm stretching and finally his feet kicking, Nick realises Harry's struggling, one handed, out of his pants, and before he can mentally search his coping mechanisms, Harry slots his now naked bum rather emphatically back into Nick’s notch with a contented sigh.

60, 61, 62, 63, Wait! Nick suppresses a semi-hysterical snicker. Wrong direction. He tries to slow his thoughts, his breathing.

60, 59, 58, 57, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60. _Shit!_

Harry lies still long enough that Nick thinks maybe he’s misread the signals, knows that’s the case when he feels a little whoosh of cool air as Harry breaks contact with Nick’s body, thankfully, mercifully leaving Nick a little slice of space between their hips. Nick’s just beginning to relax when he hears the familiar, unmistakable snick of a tube of lube being opened, he knows that sound anywhere, doesn’t he? He hears the awkward queef of air being expelled before the squelch of lube comes out and what the fuck? Harry, incorrigibly horny little monster that he is, Harry’s apparently going to have a wank, never mind Nick’s lying right here, and this is _so_ not on the programme! It’s a surprise, then, when Harry reaches around and Nick feels the sharp angles of Harry’s knuckles twisting against Nick’s hipbone, and it’s only then that he realises what Harry’s doing to himself and that there can only be one reason why. And the thing is, they’ve switched it up, plenty of times, both of them versatile and enjoying both give and take, but Harry’s always leant a little more top than bottom, he likes control and, despite his customary laid back demeanor, doesn’t actually give it up that easily, and so it usually takes at least some days spent together and more than a few drinks and a long night of romancing to maneuver Harry underneath him, although Harry’s always been well into it once Nick’s finally got the deal negotiated. So this? Harry apparently offering himself up for Nick’s taking? This is a bit of a first and Nick is inordinately fond of firsts and also, he’s no superhero, is he? Nick’s never been one to deprive himself of what he wants, and almost never on purpose.

The barely audible, almost shockingly intimate wet squelch of Harry’s fingers seems amplified a hundred times in the quiet room, and Nick opens his eyes and sees Harry’s back, naked and bathed in pink light, and Nick’s pretty certain his head is going to explode and he wonders, for the second time today, if he’s going to leave this supposedly safe house alive.

Harry’s hand withdraws and Nick hears him fumble around on the bedside table before he searches out Nick’s hand, presses a condom and the tube of lube into it, turns his face to find Nick’s jaw and kisses it, sucking briefly on Nick’s neck before saying, surprisingly conversationally,

“Your move.”

Nick knows perfectly well that this way danger lies, that he should politely but emphatically decline this encroachment of his boundaries, get up out of this bed and return to his own, but Nick’s only human, so he says, instead,

“Fuck. Harry.”

“That’s the invitation, yes.”

Harry invitingly cants his hips again and Nick can feel the slick from Harry’s crevice dampening his satin pyjamas and he lets the water close over his head and forgets to kick and he’s done for. He tosses Plan C, at least the part that requires physical abstinence from Harry, he tosses it away along with his pyjama bottoms. Fucking power bottoms, he thinks. He’s never stood a fighting chance with one and it’s simply beyond the realm of possibility that he can deny Harry when Harry’s intent on coming at him like this, soft and sweet but tirelessly persistent, and Nick’s therapist and her visualisation techniques can be damned.

His hands are shaking and he fumbles getting the condom on, something he’s customarily well-practised at. He allows himself one brief moment to lament that Harry’s are always a bit loose on him, not enough to be all that problematic when Nick’s fully hard but enough to underscore the differential. No matter. He’s got no complaints from anyone, least of all Harry. Harry’s only ever acted like Nick’s dick’s got the Royal Warrant on it and come wrapped in a bow. One securing pass over his dick to smooth the wrinkles out and spread more slick and he gently pulls Harry towards him. Harry comes easily, so willingly, his back to Nick’s front, until Harry’s lying half on, half off Nick’s chest and drapes one impossibly long leg over Nick’s hip, leaving himself open, waiting. This is called trust, Nick thinks.

“Here, love,” Nick purrs, “Come here, love. There you go.”

He angles Harry’s hips and carefully guides himself in with one excruciatingly slow, smooth push, burying his face in Harry’s curls and breathing him in and trying to memorise everything, everything about this moment, Harry’s smell, Harry’s sounds, Harry’s warmth, Harry’s willingness, everything about his big to Harry’s little spoon. Harry does as Nick’s known he would do, as he’s always done when he’s taken, when he gives himself over like this. Harry goes entirely pliant, suddenly all curves and soft recesses, this boy-turned-man who could easily knock Nick out cold with one punch, who can effortlessly flip the dynamic and throw Nick off him or top him in an instant if he chooses to, who can probably best Nick on sheer stamina and refractory time on every single occasion but thankfully never makes it a point to, this complex sweet creature goes soft and pliant and angleless in Nick’s arms, and they’re as close as their anatomies will allow and haven’t even properly kissed yet.

Harry’s hand comes around to rest on Nick’s hip, and Nick establishes the slow easy rocking he knows Harry prefers to be warmed up with, something fractionally more than stillness, something far less than a thrust, until the increasingly incoherent encouragement Harry’s whispering and the insistent pressure of Harry’s hand at Nick’s hip demand more. Harry’s lower back is damp with sweat and Nick isn’t sure if it’s his or if it’s Harry’s or that it matters much in the end, so he seals their bodies together, captures Harry hard against his chest. Harry’s no longer quiet, his moans are the sexiest song Nick’s ever heard sung. Nick feels Harry’s hips begin to syncopate and stutter and feels his own release nearing in response, feels the need to drive into him and mark him and leave something of himself behind in him and make him stay, make him stay, make him stay. Part of Nick longs to tear off the condom, take Harry hard by the hips and hold him down and use him and fill him and leave his fingerprints bruised deep into Harry’s pale skin, but instead, Nick kisses the nape of his neck, reaches down and strokes him, smears the precum that’s leaking down Harry’s dick and pooling at Harry’s hip and Nick slicks him with it and strokes him and buries his teeth deep in the flesh of Harry’s shoulder. Harry rasps out Nick’s name and reaches back for a fistful of Nick’s hair, shudders and curls in on himself and spurts over Nick’s fingers, convulses with it again and again, his body drawn tight like a bow string, and then he collapses in Nick’s arms, languid and warm and boneless, suddenly silent and entirely still except for the involuntary spasms Nick feels deep inside him. Nick savours the moment, commits it to memory and lets himself go, finally, lets Harry’s body milk the orgasm out of him until he’s finished.

Finished.

Finished.

Finished, Nick thinks, as the afterglow slowly ebbs away, then wonders about all that it possibly means and all that it surely doesn’t, and whether it’s some sort of closure, finally, or something else, something quite the opposite, and he realises it’s perfect and it’s terrible and it’s bitter and it’s sweet and it’s both comfort and threat, and Nick misses this, misses Harry, misses him entirely, already.

Harry, once he’s sufficiently recovered, apparently feels no such introspection, sounds even more than his usual degree of post-sex sated and satisfied.

“Nobody makes love as well as you do, Nick Grimshaw.”

 _“Ohhh,”_ Nick teases, needing desperately to break the mood. “May I have Instagram story of you sayin’ that? With my whole name said out like that and everything? Do wonders for my social, that.”

Harry laughs, rolls over so they’re face to face. “Sure. Just not for another 24 hours. We’re not allowed our mobiles, remember?”

“Ugh. Now you’ve gone and reminded me. Haven’t longed for it in at least three, maybe four minutes.”

_“Heyyyy.”_

“All right, all right. Maybe it was more like fifteen. Remind me why we’re doing this again?”

“To prove you’re more addicted to your phone than me.”

“ _Or you me!_ Going without’s hard though, honestly. I thought I’d go mental a couple times today, especially when I was in my room having a pout. Could’ve used some internet tea and sympathy to distract me. You?”

Harry chuckles. “I’m fine, actually. Haven’t missed it. And maybe if we’d had our mobiles to distract us, we wouldn’t be here, like this, right now. I like where we are, here.”

“I like here too.”

“So what is it you’d be doing right now if you had yours?”

“Well first, obviously, posting the Insta story of you saying I’m the best you ever. I’d have to beat the boys off, wouldn’t I? Goodbye lonely nights. And then probably whinging to whoever’s handy about backsliding and fucking you. Turns out I’m rubbish at self-care. Lemme see… That bite mark on your shoulder could do with memorializing, everything’s so pretty under this pink light, and-”

“For your M’arry folder?” Harry snickers.

“Shut up. You’re the one named it that. Now where was I? I’d be checking on Pig and Stinky and my friends. Getting the gen on Meshach. Pixie cyber-stalks him so I don’t have to. Haven’t quite got over the habit yet.”

“May we _please_ not talk about him while I’ve still got wet spunk all over me?”

“Sure, sure, of course! Just tell me when it’s dry. Hey! No punching!”

“You’re such a dick.”

“You had the nicest to say about my dick not ten ago. What would you be doing if you had your phone? I reckon getting tucked in by Jeffrey on FaceTime.”

“Shut up. We don’t do that.”

“Sexting Mitch?”

“Shut up! I hate you. We don’t do that. Mitch is with Sarah. Mitch is…with Sarah.”

“Checking your mentions on Twitter, then? Liking porn? Sliding into some supermodel’s DMs with a knock knock joke?”

“You secretly love my jokes. I have a few new ones.”

“Oh god. The things I endure to end The Celibacy. Let’s hear one, then.”

“How do you kill a circus clown?”

“This better be worth it,” Nick groans but humours him. “I don’t know, Harry. How do you kill a circus clown?”

“Go for the juggler,” Harry deadpans, then “Ha hawww! Ha ha ha hawww!”

Nick snorts before he can stop himself.

“I cannot believe you worked juggling into yet another conversation.”

“Side effects may include…”

“Don’t start! You’ll be on about the baking next. You swept up! You were a sweeper-upper of baked goods, not a goddamned baker.”

“Hey! I also took pans out the ovens! And ran the register.”

“Okay, Mary Berry, you’re a baker, settle down. Seriously, what would you be doing if you had yours right now?”

“Nothing that important. I honestly haven’t missed it. I’m really happy, here with you.”

“Aren’t you curious what’s happening out there?”

“There’s some things I’m curious about. Nothing that won’t keep.”

“What things?” Nick yawns, burrowing deeper into the mattress.

“Things like knowing for certain that Mum and Gem are okay. And if me and you travelling together was made into a thing. I don’t want them slagging you off like they used to. Not much else.”

“You should check on your family if you want. I’ll grant a reprieve. And don’t worry about me, I’m used to it, aren’t I? Are you bothered they’ll speculate we’re fucking again, since you’ve properly held hands with a boy in public now?”

“We did just fuck. We are, in fact, fucking, again, finally.”

“Once, it was just this once. And you took advantage of me being knackered and jet lagged and isolated with no one to consult and tell me not to.”

“Jet lag’s not a thing from Lon-… Forget it,” Harry laughs. “I don’t care who knows we’re fucking, or whether your friends approve. I’m sorry I ever did care.”

“Shhh. We needn’t keep talking about it.”

“But we don’t, like, ever. We don’t talk about it.”

“It’s something we don’t do,” Nick sings quietly, slightly off key as always. Nick thinks he’s been clever, and Harry usually likes having his lyrics fit into the conversation, but Harry doesn’t reward him. Harry apparently wants to talk it out even though he’s promised Nick they can be done for the day.

“We drifted apart, though. And I think that’s part of it, us not talking, even when we’re talking. And I didn’t like it, the drifting apart part. Maybe we should’ve talked about things, relationship things, more, ’s all I’m saying.”

Nick feigns snoring. He hates one-on-one relationship talk, always has, always will. He’s hardly ever had one that turned out well, has he, and he usually gets weepy and clingy and self-loathing and that will only do within the safety of his girlfriends in the aftermath, never with his boyfriends in real time, what a horror that’d be, like working at it.

“Tit.”

“Spoilt popstar.”

“Who was it spoilt me?”

“Dashing youngish DJ from Oldham?”

“The very one.”

Harry’s quiet for a long time after that, and Nick thinks he’s fallen asleep, and Nick could do with sleep himself.

“Nick?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you really not still love me, even a little bit?”

Threat. Alert. Red. So very red. What is it comes after red?

Nick tries to laugh it off, as expert at deflection as Harry when he needs to be, and he very much needs to be. “I still love fucking you.”

Harry sighs, disheartened. “Never mind.”

Nick’s never been able to bear seeing Harry unhappy, especially not when it’s of his making, and that’s one thing that hasn’t changed between them. He pulls Harry in close, tangles their legs, kisses the top of his head.

“Course I love you. You’re my best mate still, aren’t you? Have been for ages.”

“You’re mine still as well.”

“Better be.”

“Nick? There was another reason you wanted my phone put away. The real reason I agreed to it.”

“What’s that again?” Nick pretends. Sometimes he pretends to not know things, because it’s easier and it’s safer and there’s things he can’t let himself know.

“To prove I can put you ahead of everything else for more’n 24 hours in a row, that I can give you my undivided attention.”

“Hunh.”

“How’m I doing?”

“Well, you’re a terrific host. Feel like a king from all the attention.”

“Good, but you know that’s not the point of it. It’s more about other people and my career and stuff, the stuff that’s been a problem, in past. And being able to put you, us, ahead of all that.”

Nick can’t let it go on like this, can’t let him go on. Harry might want to pretend but Nick can’t afford to, so he kicks.

“Listen, I know you mean well, but reality is, you’re away with your career friends way more’n you’re ever home near to me. It’s okay though. I get it. And I’m better about it now. I am. Career first. Career friends first when career things are happening. That’s fine as friends, just not when we’re trying for more. I mean, we can shag now and again, like this, if we’re both up for it, but I can’t come second to all that other stuff again.”

“But you won’t have to. You’ve not been listening to me. We can make decisions together. I told you I’ve got more control. I can mostly do what I want. I’ve got a way better handle on things and-”

“I hear what you’re saying, but I would. And you’re not oblivious to what it does to me, every time, even if we don’t talk about it and you’re not around to see firsthand. No more of that for me, please. In fact, this? Tonight? I take back what I said about shagging. This needs to be a one off. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Harry shrugs away from him and scoots across the mattress, reestablishing his own side of the bed, leaving Nick to his. Harry’s quiet for a while, then his long limbs begin to thrash about, and he huffs and flails uncomfortably about for a few minutes before, as Nick knew he would, he rolls forward into Nick’s waiting nook again and settles with his head back on Nick’s shoulder.

“It meant something to me,” Harry mutters, his words muffled against Nick’s chest. Nick kisses his forehead and pulls him in even closer, feels Harry’s heart beating, slow and steady. It’s Nick’s that’s hammering unevenly, even though he makes sure his voice is steady and soothing.

“I know, love, I know. Everything’ll be all right.”

Nick strokes Harry’s back and pets his curls until Harry’s finally asleep, then lies awake watching profiteroles made, learns how to lattice a pie crust and how to properly season and baste wild fowl, before he eventually falls asleep himself, lulled by the familiar rhythmic wheezing beside him.


	6. Arose, With Thorns

_A good friend will always stab you in the front.    Oscar Wilde _

Waking up alone when he’s gone to bed in company is always disorienting. Nick wonders if he dreamt last night. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s dreamt of Harry in his arms and, let’s face it, it’s not likely to be the last. Nick lies still for a few minutes, hoping Harry hasn’t gone further than the loo and will rematerialise momentarily, crawl back into Nick’s arms and make it feel real again. He doesn’t. And Nick, despite his protests last night, feels deprived of his morning-after glow, and he wants to kick Harry and wants to kick himself as well, because Nick’s been here before, so many times, hasn’t he, at Harry’s complete and inconsistent mercy as to whether he returns to Nick in minutes, days, months or, Nick’s not-so-secret, ever-present fear, never at all.

Nick's earliest childhood memory is of waking up alone in the backseat of his family's car, strapped into his carseat, trapped and alone and not knowing if his mum or dad were ever coming back for him. He's not shared that memory with his therapist yet, because it's quite hard having someone else play connect-the-dots with his life.

Nick's suddenly having a hard time catching his breath, so he sits up, puts his feet on the floor and his head in his hands. What felt like being given something last night feels a bit like having something taken from him this morning, his boundaries, for a start, how typical of Harry, to somehow make Nick feel grateful for something Nick doesn’t want. Deep down inside, Nick knows it’s not Harry that’s to blame, but he’ll unpack all that once he’s got safely back home. He longs for his well-worn sheepskin slippers and his dogs and his mobile and his friends, for London rain to be falling outside and for it to be just another bloody Sunday.

“You’re up! Perfect timing.”

Harry wheels a tray table covered in white linen into the room, and Nick thinks it’s quite odd, the formality of that wheeled table, but then again, Harry grew up in hotels, so it kind of makes sense.

“Owed you naked breakfast in bed, didn’t I? There’s fruit, yoghurt, couple biscotti, they went a bit wrong but still taste pretty good with the jam, coffee, orange juice, voila!”

Nick eyeballs the tray suspiciously.

“Stop scowling at the green smoothie, that’s mine. I’m just going up to run for a few. Wanted to get your morning off to a good start first, though.”

Nick has nothing to say, so he still says nothing, and Harry, brows furrowed, sits down beside him, leans in to nuzzle his neck.

“Am I too late?” His lips are on Nick’s jaw. "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Harry’s all warmth and comfort and his own almost irresistible morning-after glow, and Nick wants to bask in it, to share it, but he already feels the undertow, water’s rising, and he instinctively kicks against it. Nick still hasn’t spoke a word, and he knows he should thank Harry for breakfast, tell him to go and enjoy his run and that Nick’ll be up in a minute, it’s what any normal person would do, so of course Nick opens his gob and says 

“Woke up in the whole wrong bed, didn’t I?”

Harry’s intake is audible, he’s off the bed in a flash and he looks absolutely gutted, like Nick’s struck him, and Nick can’t remember a time when Harry’s looked younger or more fragile.

“You regret it, last night? You regret being with me, _already?”_ Harry’s mouth compresses into a lipless white line, and his chin goes all round and dimpled up, the only place dimples don’t look good on Harry. Nick can’t bear to see it, or that he caused it, when he didn’t even really mean to say it out loud. His recrimination was meant only for himself, not Harry. He reaches out and takes Harry’s hand, squeezes it tight.

“I’m sorry, love. Bitchy of me. I’m tired is all. Mezcal’s got me more'n a bit hungover. And I’m really tense about tomorrow, A-levels tense. I don’t regret it. I don’t regret you, I swear, how could I? You go run. I’ll have my breakfast, get dressed and be up in a minute, and I’ll be sunshine and roses rest of day.”

“You needn’t fake being sunshine and roses. Just a bit less thorny will do. Just a bit less of a prick.”

Nick laughs. “Right. I’ll mind the thorns.”

Nick eats his breakfast, returns the rolling tray table to the kitchen and washes up the dishes. He goes back to Harry’s to have a shower, then scampers down to his own room with a towel around his waist to find clean clothes, something that will clearly signal that he’s not joining in on the exercise programme. He longs to lose himself in the internet for a while, anything to break the tension. He longs for the comfort of his mobile, for his pocket full of friends. He longs to speak to Aimee, to Pixie, to Alexa or Daisy or FiFi or Gills or George or Henry or Ian or even just listen to Pig pant at him down the line or Stinky’s snuffling. He’s not used to figuring out what he’s feeling or what he should do all on his own. Nick likes feedback, he’s an advice-seeker, even though he mostly ignores it. He stares at himself in the mirror and gives himself a stern lecture, then practises his apology.

Harry’s shirtless on the treadmill when Nick finally joins him, his hair done up in a head band and a hair clip as if it were much longer than it is. He’s running fast and glistening with sweat, and when he spots Nick, he mops at his eyes with his forearm and gestures ‘five’ with the fingers of one hand.

Nick takes a seat in the curiously out-of-context swing, pulls off his shirt in hopes of getting some sun, sets himself in motion, to and fro, to and fro, and watches Harry run. And run. And run.

Five minutes come and go.

Five kilometres, then, not minutes.

Okay. Five miles then, not kilometres.

Well then. Nick hopes Harry didn’t mean hours. With Harry one never knows.

Harry’s dripping sweat and a bit winded when he finally slows the treadmill and steps off. He reaches for a bottle of water, takes a deep pull before speaking.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“We good?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Woke up bitchy.”

“It’s okay.”

And that’s that done, their customary way of things, all talked out, fresh start. Nick’s ready to move on if Harry is, and Harry apparently is.

“Running’s harder without music. First time I’ve missed my phone. Ping pong?”

“Hunh?”

Harry nods towards a ping pong table stood against a far wall. Nick’s not noticed it before. It’s set with one side turned up at a 90 degree angle going up the wall, the solo player position, and Nick imagines Harry here, all by himself, bored, playing ping pong with nothing but a wall.

“Have you not heard? You’re looking at Table Tennis Pub Champion of Stoke Newington next year.”

Nick helps Harry lift the table away from the wall, set it up, and Harry retrieves two paddles and a handful of balls from a drawer in the bar.

“Stole this off tour,” Harry tells him, gesturing to the Treat People With Kindness stenciled on the table. “Best three out of…?”

“Best three out of,” Nick agrees, paddling a ball none too steadily up and down. He’s going for opponent intimidation through a display of confidence, which is a laugh, as the only kind of pong Nick’s played recently is the beer one, at somebody he can’t remember’s retro-themed house party. “I’m not sure it’s stealing when it’s from your own tour.”

There’s a loud crack as Harry serves, and a ball ricochets twice off the table and past Nick before he even lifts his paddle.

“You didn’t say we'd started!” Nick protests.

“One to nothing,” Harry smiles, and Nick’s reminded how competitive Harry can be.

Harry serves again, this time not quite so hard, and Nick gets some paddle on it, thankfully, but pops it up into the air. Harry catches it smoothly, grinning.

“Two to nothing. Your serve.”

“So competitive. Give a girl a chance, will you?”

Nick serves, careful and smooth, and Harry humours him and gently bats it back.

“So, the swing…” Nick says, because a polite conversation never hurt anyone, and may also be a useful tactic. Nick chats for a living, doesn’t he, holds his own with people far more talented than himself on the show on a regular basis, it’s his thing. Nick’s not all that competitive, himself. Nick just wants everyone to have an equally good time, but he’s not conceding this game to Harry ‘won my own tournament gave myself a trophy then rubbed everyone’s face in it’ Styles.

“You’re not going all Pink on us, are you? Planning a bit of air ballet next tour? Do a bit of trapeze? Thrash about in a harness?”

“No. Three to nothing. Your serve again.”

“Sex swing, then?”

“Just a swing. There were children here, before. Twins. Four to nothing. It’s not your serve, but okay. I only had it raised. It’s a decent abs work out. Five to nothing.”

“Waste of a good swing, if you ask me.”

“Which… I did not.”

Nick laughs, deep and throaty, the laugh that signals he’s thinking something dirty.

“Reminds me of summat, that swing. So Meshach, he’s a professional dancer, right?”

Harry’s serve whistles past Nick’s ear.

“I’m aware. Six to nothing.”

“And proper bendy, like, he can do things I’ve never even seen done in porn, not even the kinky stuff. The sex was incredible, and-”

It’s Harry’s serve again, and he takes careful aim and the ball zings across the table and ricochets hard off Nick’s bicep, right off his big M tattoo.

 _“Ow! Watch it!”_ Nick howls. “That stung, didn’t it?” It’s meant to be rhetorical, but Harry answers.

“Yes.” Harry looks pointedly at the tattoo. “That stung. Be happy to revise that for you. Got my gun around here somewhere. Seven to nothing.”

Nick realises that apparently the inked M has got as much under Harry’s skin as Nick’s own.

“That’s what this is about, you having a problem with Mesh?”

“I had a problem with you with Mesh. Not the same. Your serve.”

Nick pings his serve gently over the net and Harry pongs it back without escalation.

“You never let on you were jealous.”

Ping.

"He’d be thrilled, you should know.”

Pong.

“We had a row about you more’n once.”

Ping.

Nick’s return lands in the net. He keeps talking as he fishes it out.

“Said the way you were always in my head, even when me and him were fucking, that we might as well have a threesome, let him get some as well, if your dick’s so magic. That’s what he said, his words exactly, ‘if Harry Styles’ dick is so magic’. As if. _As if!”_

Nick chokes on indignation, looks apoplectic, paddles the ball hard and Harry steps aside and lets it go past him.

“Seven to one. As if what?”

_“As if I’d ever share you with him!”_

“Share me with him, or him with me?”

“That’s just semantics.”

“It’s not, actually, but okay.” Harry goes to retrieve the ball, prepares to serve, doesn’t.

Nick likes that Harry was jealous, wishes he’d known in real time so he could’ve fully enjoyed it.

“On a scale of one to ten, how jealous would you say you were?”

“Nick, you fell in love with someone, someone that wasn’t me. Let’s go with ten.”

Harry puts the ball in motion and Nick sends it back, and they volley back and forth in even slow tempo, more focused now on the conversation than the ball.

“But you, you were with, if memory serves, and I’ll just list the majors here, the knowns, you were with Taylor, and Kendall, and Taylor a couple more times in there again, Xander, and Kendall on and off again, and Camille, and then Xander showed up again so goodbye poor Camille, and it’s not for me to define Mitch, but I’m not the only one’s wondered, and you also have that friend you see in Tokyo, don’t think word doesn’t make it back, and then, _him,_ for all the world to see. I was proud of you for that, at least.”

Harry flicks his wrist and the ball whizzes under Nick’s arm.

“I didn’t fall in love with someone else though… That was only you. Eight to one.”

“Have you ever noticed you tend to make the same conquests over and over again? Like, you leave unfinished business? Circle back for more? Like you never have full closure?”

“I’ve noticed. Made a record off it. There’s all kinds of therapy, Nicholas, not just the kind you do. I’ve not been the model boyfriend. To anyone. I get it. Nine to one.”

“And I am?” Nick snorts. “I’ve had therapy, not a personality transplant. God, we’re a matched pair of losers in that department, aren’t we? No wonder we’re still single, gonna both of us probably die single. Here lies Bachelor Number One and over there lies Bachelor Number Two, at a discreet distance, so as not to be presumed a couple.”

“Doesn’t have to be that way. You’re single. I’m single. Kinda makes you go ‘hmmm’. Who do we know who could date each other? Ten to one.”

“I’m single, but you’re never really single. Relationships come and go, and you keep coming and going, and you might fancy yourself in love for half-a-minute, which is about your attention span-”

_“Heyyyy.”_

“Soz. But you can’t put anyone else first. I reckon you’re already married for life, married to your career.”

“No I’m not!” Harry objects emphatically. “It’s just my job. It’s nothing but a job with part-time travel, which, yes, I love, I really love, but… For fuck’s sake, Nick! That’s a shit thing to say to me, maybe the worst thing you’ve ever! Especially when I’m putting you first _right fucking now!”_

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. That was harsh. But a lost weekend when you’re not even working doesn’t prove anything.”

 _“Unghhh!”_ Harry huffs in exasperation. He glowers at Nick fiercely and reaches for his water bottle, grabs his discarded tee from the floor to scrub the sweat off his face, neck and chest in succession, muttering blasphemous curses and insults about Nick’s character under his breath all the while, and that’s when Nick notices the change in him.

“You’ve…you’ve shaved your chest,” he stutters out. “You’ve done that just this morning.”

Harry returns to his end of the table, picks up his paddle, stares Nick down.

“I did. You commented on my…having not. Your serve.”

Nick is mortified, like he’s jokingly suggested his favourite national monument be improved and been taken seriously. In fact, this whole morning’s gone hopelessly sideways, him spewing a torrent of hurtful words at Harry like verbal gunge for no reason whatsoever other than Nick’s not got enough sleep and he’s neurotic as fuck and his inner bitch is apparently having her cycle, which, all not poor Harry’s fault. Harry’s just trying to be a good host. Harry’s just trying to entertain. Nick tries desperately to ungunge him.

“But…you really needn’t have…not on account of me.”

“You going to play or stare? You prefer it this way. Don’t make a thing of it.”

“I like you both ways. ’s a big commit for a weekender, though.”

Harry steps back, shifts all his weight onto his right leg, draws his right arm all the way back and serves the ping pong ball as hard he possibly can, straight at Nick’s stomach, not even bothering to bounce it off the table.

 _“OUCH!”_ Nick howls. “That really hurt!” He rubs at a red mark already rising on his stomach.

“That’s a point to you. Ten to two. Still my serve.”

Harry steps back as if he’s going to do it again and Nick throws his paddle down, clutches at his belly.

 _“You did that on purpose! That’s gonna leave a welt!”_ He gestures at the table, outraged. _“It says right there! Treat People With Fucking Kindness!”_

Harry looks at him impassively, then sets his paddle down and leans in, his knuckles resting on the table.

“Some welts can’t be seen. And were also made on purpose.”

He squints up into the sun.

“Lunch?”


	7. Edible Arrangement

_ Life is too important to be taken seriously.   Oscar Wilde _

In the lift, Harry leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll shower, then I’ll knock up something for lunch.”

Nick takes his own corner and glowers at him, one hand still held protectively over the red welt rising on his stomach.

“I need a salve!” he pouts, punching the 2 button like it insulted his mum. When the door opens on his floor, he stalks off the lift without a backward glance.

Harry holds the door open, leans out and calls after him. “Hey Nick?”

Nick flounces around, one hand on his hip and one still cradling his belly like it’s his third trimester.

“I’ll be in kitchen in twenty or so. You coming down?”

Nick huffs, exasperated.

“Where else would I go?”

“Just checking.” Harry smiles, reassured. “I’ll see you in a few.”

Nick’s already walking away again, waving his hand in dismissal.

This whole weekend’s been nothing but swings and roundabouts, and Nick no longer knows if he’s coming or going, what’s up from down or left from right or wrong from right, for that matter. In the relative sanctuary of his room, Nick flops onto the bed, facedown in a pillow, pulls another one over his head, wonders if he can smother himself in down alternative and 4,000 thread count pillow covers. Nick’s not bashful about checking a label, in fact, if he’d had his phone, which, arghhh, stupid fucking bet, he’d take a photo of it for future reference. As it is, he’ll never remember the brand, and Harry’ll of course be no use. Nick’s seen Harry sleep on a sheet of kitchen roll without complaint. Harry’s easy by nature and so’s Nick, most times. Nick contemplates which one of them started this row, realises he’s cocked it up himself again.

Nick finds Harry in the kitchen making sandwiches with bread that looks so full of grain Nick can already taste dirt, a smear of Branston Pickle and what’s left of Friday night’s chicken. Harry’s got two trays set with dishes and a third filled up with cheeses and biscuits and crisps and tins of assorted sweets. He looks up and pauses, clearly taking Nick’s emotional temperature.

Nick speaks first. “Sorry. Woke up bitchy.”

Harry smiles, walks around the island and puts his hands on Nick’s hips, stands toe to toe.

“You’re stroppier than usual. You’re just tense about tomorrow. I’m sorry I gave you that sting.” He tugs the hem of Nick’s shirt up, frowns and runs his thumb over the angry red welt. “Here.” He reaches for a tin of salve, Smith’s Rosebud Salve, Nick reads on the tin. “Brought this down for you.” Harry thumbs some up and smears it gently across the welt and Nick feels immediately better, Harry’s undivided attention a more soothing balm than the salve itself could ever be. When Harry hugs him, Nick hugs back, and it’s not complicated, and Nick’s so grateful he even pretends he doesn’t notice when Harry wipes the last of the salve off his fingers on the back of Nick’s shirt.

“Truce?” Harry asks.

“Truce.”

“Hungry?”

“Not just yet.”

“No problem.” Nick watches as Harry covers the trays with tea towels.

“Scissored that awful suit, did you?”

Harry laughs. “Shut up. Did not. How about a film, and we eat when we’re ready?”

Nick doesn’t have to be asked twice. He’s already on his way to the living room.

“What’re we thinking? No more Hugh Grant,” he says over his shoulder.

“I’ve been saving Crazy Rich Asians. You said you enjoyed it.”

“Perfect! Can’t believe you’ve not seen it yet.”

“I’ve been busy. And I don’t like watching new stuff on my own. It’s filmed in Singapore, right? Love Singapore.”

Harry settles in the middle of the sofa and queues Crazy Rich Asians. Nick tucks himself cozily into one corner, pulls an embellished black shawl from the back of the sofa and bundles himself up in it.

“God, I could do with a few hours relaxation. I thought the day’d gone all to pot.”

“What?”

“What what?”

“What’d you just say?”

“Ummm, I could do with relaxing?”

“No, the other thing.”

“The day’s gone to pot?”

Nick looks at him curiously as Harry’s eyes light up and his mouth opens in a wide ‘O’ before he grins at Nick like the cat that ate the shit. He’s up and out of the room before Nick can ask why. When he comes back, he’s carrying a wrapped cellophane package that looks like it might have a pot of flowers inside, and Nick wonders how he’s ordered it without his phone.

“What’s that?”

“An edible arrangement.” Harry’s busily unwrapping the cellophane.

“Like, the fruit on a stick ones, like you had backstage at SNL?”

“Like the fruit on a stick ones. Like at SNL. Only this one’s an edible arrangement.”

“You said. Where’d you magic it up from?”

“Stevie gave it to me. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

“Nicks?” Nick squeaks. He’s still impressed by Harry’s connections.

Harry nods and pulls the large sheet of cellophane away with a flourish, revealing… more cellophane, little individually sealed cellophane-wrapped candies, in a rainbow of colour, stuck on sticks, stuck in a pretty jug.

“That’s not what I was expecting,” Nick laughs.

“Nick,” Harry says patiently, “It’s an edible arrangement.”

“You said.”

“Nick. It’s an… _edible_ …arrangement!”

Nick does a double take, leans forward and peers at it, his interest suddenly heightened. “You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not. Look, she’s put a note in. Says they’re made from different extracts, each very specifically, but meant to mix and match, so the doses are small. The strawberry ones are the ones’ll most trip us out. The watermelon looking ones are for listening to music. Lime slices’ll make food and everything taste better. Grape ones are meant for sleep. Cherry ones’re to help with relaxation and mood elevation. You definitely need a few of those. The orange slices inspire creativity. Lemon slices make you horny. Use those only in good company, she says. We’re in good company, right?”

“We’re in _terrific_ company! Gimme a lime and a strawberry and two of them cherry ones, to start.”

A half hour into the film, Harry’s staring balefully at the telly and doesn’t approve of Crazy Rich Asians.

“So he just ambushes her on the plane like that, after dating a year, and now suddenly she finds out he’s uber-rich, like, freakishly rich? That’s not okay.”

“Shhh. It advances the plot.”

“But he’s not just failed to mention it. He’s actively evaded her questions, and now she’s in love with him and lost her choice. That’s a bit manipulative, don’t you think? That’s not okay. That is not okay.”

“Look who’s the rom-com police. Have another cherry one.”

“This is nice though. I’ve missed this. I like you being here. Let’s try the lemon ones.”

Nick watches Harry chew for a few seconds, then gestures for him to budge closer. “C’mere. Could do with a cuddle.”

Harry scoots next to him, puts his feet up on the sofa table next to Nick’s and lays his head on Nick’s shoulder. They watch in silence until Nick’s stomach growls.

“I could murder one of them sandwiches about now.”

They both turn and stare at each other, eyes wide, delighted at the sheer genius of one Nicholas Peter Andrew Grimshaw. It’s a clumsy footrace to the kitchen and back with cold pints and the three trays.

“Mmphf ouf ung acghle unkna irdit glnk,” Nick says emphatically. He’s entirely incomprehensible with his mouth full, except they’ve been here before, haven’t they?

“She did, she really did,” Harry assures him. “And,” he takes his own huge mouthful, somehow managing not to bite his own protruding tongue off in the process, “imphf unna mickle assa ablunckth o, inf ouf a gerf ugle.”

Nick nods his agreement, reaching for the packet of crisps. “Exactly.”

Thirty glorious minutes later, thirty minutes of stuffing their gobs and licking their fingers, of grunts and groans and incomprehensible jabbering around huge mouthfuls of food, the wreckage of their feast litters the sofa table and surrounding floor. Nick sucks the last bit of caramel from the inside of a miniature Snickers wrapper, belches and notices that his feet are oddly hot, so he pulls off his socks and immediately becomes preoccupied with his toenails.

Harry carefully farts his half-scale, closes one eye and strains to squeak out one more note at the end, fails and collapses back on the sofa cushions in disappointment.

“Nice one,” Nick observes, ever supportive.

“I’ll try again later,” Harry promises sincerely, “once I work up more wind.”

“Waiting for it,” Nick assures him, “like it’s my own private concert.” In the moment, he totally means it. Nick stares at his big toe, thinking he’s not got unattractive feet, something that can’t quite be said of Harry, and Nick needs to remember to remind Harry that his feet are disproportionately ugly when compared to the rest of him, needs to remind him of that just in case no one else has pointed it out lately, but he can’t be arsed to mention it at the moment, because now he’s remembered the night Harry tattooed his own big toe with the word ‘Big’ and thought it was profound and it had seemed like a good idea at the time but not healed well due to Harry’s manky boots and somewhat inconsistent hygiene, and Nick had been forced to endure daily photos of Harry’s festering toe for weeks and it’s a wonder the thing hadn’t fallen off in the end and wouldn’t that have made one hell of a souvenir for some lucky Directioner? “Hey, is that my mobile ringing?”

“Pretty sure that’s an ambulance. Okay, so now, the thing is, right, he didn’t even warn her that the party was black tie, and she could’ve shown up in just her little frock. He’s not looked out-”

“Oh good Christ. Wanker.”

“-for her at all. He should’ve made arrangements, and… Who’s a wanker? Him or me?”

“You. Him I’d do.”

“Surprising…no one? And she has to get herself to the party on her own? What even is that? He couldn’t go pick her up or even send a car? That’s rubbish. He’s good looking enough, I’ll give him that, but he’s a bit of a bellend.”

Harry’s gesticulating in protest, and Nick manages to trap one of his hands, slotting their fingers tightly together to still him. Harry immediately subdues, tucks comfortably back into him, and Nick rewards him by sharing his shawl and kissing Harry’s fingertips, his delicately painted blue fingertips. He looks at his own bitten fingernails and frowns.

“Your nails look pretty. Could’ve done with a mani myself before tomorrow.”

It’s as if he’s pressed an ANIMATE button on Harry, who’s suddenly lit up from within, a human glow stick.

“Allow me!”

Harry’s off the sofa and away to the lift, babbling about pink and black and teal as the doors close on his face, and Nick wonders where he gets the energy, considering Nick’s laid out on the sofa with his limbs feeling like pot noodle. Harry’s back in what seems like an instant with three bottles of varnish, settles himself cross-legged on the floor with his back to the telly and nods for Nick to get on the floor across from him.

“I’m an excellent painter of nails,” Harry assures him happily. “I’ve only them three colours with me though.”

Nick manages to fold his limbs and slide obediently to the floor, his knees knocking into Harry’s underneath the table, already giving Harry one hand, false protesting.

“But you can’t see the telly from there. I’m feeling the black, what do you think? You’ll miss the film. You’ll like the end, I promise, it’s a happy one. Are you not going to file them?”

“I don’t enjoy filing, just painting. Just the one colour only, on all ten?” Harry sounds disappointed.

“Yeah, I think so. Keep things conservative.”

Harry gives the black varnish a few taps against the heel of his hand. “You’re not supposed to shake it, by the way, just tap the little ball around, like this, see? You were saying?”

“You can’t see the film.”

“I’m not enjoying it much. Everyone’s harassing her on social media and stuff, just because she’s dating that rich tosser, and she seems like a nice enough girl. It’s sad for a comedy, isn’t it?”

“You going to just keep shaking the bottle or get on with it?”

“You don’t shake it, you… Oh. Right.”

Harry unscrews the top, carefully wipes the brush on the lip of the bottle and takes Nick’s hand in his. Harry’s tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth and his brows furrow, he’s concentrating, and the first smooth black stroke glistens on Nick’s fingertip.

“You’ll need two coats,” Harry says, happily settling in and dipping the brush in the bottle. “Love painting nails.”

Nick’s staring at Harry’s hands, one holding his, just so, the other holding the tiny brush and carefully painting Nick’s nails black, one by one. Nick could watch Harry’s hands on his like this all day, realises he’s already been staring for several minutes when Harry carefully starts the second coat. Nick decides to make conversation instead of just stare but can’t seem to find his words. Harry comes to the rescue.

“Hey Nick?” Harry’s voice is warm and thick and pours out of him slow like golden syrup, and Nick wants to spread him on a pancake and eat him.

“Hmmm?”

“I’ve been wondering. Why do you think stadiums get so hot after a show’s over?”

“What?”

Nick watches as Harry holds Nick’s hand at eye level, studying the finish of the varnish. Then Harry leans in and licks the polish on Nick’s pinky, his tongue darting across it twice, a kitten lick. Harry glances up, takes in Nick’s trancelike expression, smiles and licks Nick’s fingernail again, puts more tongue into it this time, lingers, and Nick recognises performance art when he sees it. He’s a bit of performance artist himself.

“It’s a thing. Sets the finish,” Harry informs him, “when you’ve not got any top coat.”

Nick’s still just sat there, a stupid look on his face he’s sure, because he can feel his gums drying out.

“Why do you think stadiums get so hot after shows?” Harry persists.

“How should I know? You’re the expert on…” Nick suddenly clues, decides to humour him, because it’s Harry, and why not, and also, he’s dead curious now. "I don’t know, Harry. Why do stadiums get so hot after shows?”

“Because all the fans are gone. Ha! I’m going to use that next tour.”

Harry slips his lips over Nick’s ring finger, slides down all the way to the first knuckle, which Nick thinks is surely excessive, and he’s going to say as much, when Harry sucks on his finger gently, silencing Nick entirely, then studies the spit slick nail.

“Perfect.”

He moves on to Nick’s middle finger, sucks the tip, then moves on to Nick’s forefinger. He slowly runs his lips all the way down to Nick’s second knuckle, keeps his eyes fixed and unblinking on Nick’s, sucks and slides his lips back up to the nail and back down it again, a fucking pantomime blow job if ever Nick’s seen one, and he’s seen one, he’s seen a few, and goddamnit, Nick’s mouth is really far too dry, he’s having a hard time swallowing and he’s got no spit and he’s a fucking mouth breather now apparently, and he blinks first, he always blinks first with Harry, because Harry’s a very slow blinker, oddly slow, and often looks like he’s just woke up from a coma. Of course, Nick would never tell him so, because it might hurt Harry’s feelings, and even exceptionally good looking people are sensitive about their looks, right, so instead he says

“You blink oddly slow, like you’ve just woke up from a coma.”

“You’ve mentioned.” Harry blinks even slower, surely on purpose, keeps his eyes closed for such a long beat Nick wonders if he’s nodded off, is considering a kip himself until, there they are again, big green slightly bloodshot eyes with huge black pools in the middle that Nick could drown in, which it wouldn’t do for Harry to know, so Nick gives a little kick.

“’s a bit like watching an automated garage door roll up and down.”

Harry laughs. “It’s not.”

“It is! Hey, have I ever told you about that time at Coachella, that time I-”

“With the thing? And Henry? In the tent? And who else was it? Kelly?”

“Osbourne. Yes, that one. Have I told you it already?”

Harry smiles, slides his lips back down Nick’s forefinger, sucks, blinks sleepily, slides off.

“No, you never have. Tell me again.”

“So this one time, I was at Coachella, right? Is that my phone? That’s my phone ringin’.”

“That’s a lorry reversing.”

“I miss my phone. I love that phone.”

“You can have your phone. You’ve only to admit you’ve lost the bet.”

“Nah, no way. So Coachella, good story, right?”

“It's a great story. You tell it so well. Hey, did I ever tell you about that time on tour, when I stopped singing and the whole audience sang Kiwi to me all the way to the finish?”

“In Australia, with you sat on the piano looking like a banana being eaten by koi?”

“In Melbourne, yeah,” Harry sounds surprised. “That’s like, whoa, a psychic moment or summat.”

“Something like that.” Harry doesn’t need to know Nick’s watched it on YouTube, does he? It’s not quite a lie. “No love, you never did.”

“Never did what?”

Harry presses both of Nick’s hands flat to the table, studies his fingernails with satisfaction.

“Finished. Looks good.”

“Look almost as good as yours. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. That line a while back, about two girls, one cup of noodles, is that a real porn film? I need to remember to google that when I have my phone back.“

“You don’t want to google that.”

“But I-”

“You don’t want to google that.”

“I was just-”

“Don’t google that.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to google that, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t come crying to me.”

“Is it sad porn? Why would anyone want to cry over porn? Is that a thing?”

“Just don’t google it, okay?”

“Hey, do you remember we watched that film that one time…with the guy, who bought that…what was it, again?”

“The one where they ended up in the-”

“Yeah. This film is sort of like that.”

“This film is nothing like that.”

“But Nick?”

“Hmmm?”

Harry doesn’t say anything.

“What?”

“What what?”

“What were you going to ask me?”

“I was asking you something?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“What what?”

“What was I asking?”

“Jesus.”

“Hey Nick?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“Why do some gay men stay in the closet for so long?”

“For the fashion. Oh my god, don’t look so gutted. I told you that one. You want I should pretend I haven’t heard it? And you always accusing me of joke appropriation. But speaking of fashion…Met Gala!” Nick makes excited jazz hands around his face. _“Aiighhhh!”_

 _“Aiighhhh,”_ Harry echoes, waving his hands.

“Old news now, but could you hear me screaming from London? What a fucking spectacle that night must’ve been in person.” Nick sighs heavily. “I wish I’d’ve been there to see it.”

“What? You should’ve said. Anna, she’d’ve let me…I could’ve…you could’ve…”

“I mean, did I really? Have to say? It was the fucking Met Gala. And camp-themed. You co-hosting it. Alexa there as well, and Mark. Loads of people I know or should know. Course I wanted to go. Would’ve wedged myself right in between you and Alessandro, worn something fabulous. Danced the night away with drunk Famouses and scored a posh after-After Party invite with all your other exes.”

“It wasn’t…it was…a work thing…for me. I didn’t think of…that was fucking stupid of me. You could’ve been my Plus One. Been loads more fun with you there.”

A low throaty laugh gurgles out of Nick.

“What? That’s us coming out as couple then, on the Met Gala red carpet?” Nick peals with laughter. “What’re we wearing? We have to have coordinating costumes, don’t we?”

“But let’s keep it subtle. And in good taste, nothing vulgar.”

“What, no vinyl catsuits? No you going dressed as a human electrical socket and me going done up as the plug?”

“Bit presumptuous of you, innit? I was co-host. What if I wanted to go as the plug?”

“I’d’ve let you be the plug. Sexy. The cord could’ve come straight off your dick, you know?” Nick leers at him, snickering. “Show them what all the fuss’s been about all these years. That’d’ve made news, wouldn’t it?”

“Met Gala carpet with my dick stuck out in a vinyl tube… What could go wrong?”

“Or I could’ve worn my red boots, the thigh ones? And over them nothing but a long graphic shirt, proper art, right? Only it’s got QUEER written massive across front of it, like graffiti. Bit of eye. Glam Marge Simpson wig on top.”

“Hmmm. That’s one way to go. Very subtle.”

“And you could do same, only yours says BAIT across front.”

“I’d rather put my penis in an actual electrified socket.”

“That’s a pass on us going as queerbait then?”

“I hate to disappoint, but yes, hard pass.”

“Seriously, though, that second costume with the wonky red bow went a bit Humpty Dumpty, didn’t it, but-”

_“Heyyyy.”_

“-the first, the black lace one? It was everything. Spot on.”

“Thanks! Thank you. It felt good. Felt right. I felt very pretty.” Harry bats his eyelashes coyly. “It’s hung upstairs, you know. And…” Harry’s voice drops, a definite flirtation. “It looks even more to your…preferences… _sans trouser._ ”

An undignified little yip sound escapes Nick, like he’s one of Pig’s squeaker toys been sat on.

“Just…the lace blouse and…and some black briefs under?”

“Just the lace blouse with briefs under, and…the boots.”

“ _Fuuuck._ Them high-heeled boots. I reckon I wouldn’t go blind if you wanted to show me. Mark me off your Christmas list as shopped for.”

“Here. Have another lemon one.”

Nick considers launching himself across the table at Harry, carrying him straight up to his closet and demanding a fashion show, but scrambles back onto the sofa instead, puts some distance between them, wraps himself back up in the black shawl. Harry takes his cue, gets up and moves across the room and has a seat at the piano, stares at the keys for a few moments before tentatively playing a few slow chords.

“Mmmm, that’s nice. That something you’re working on?”

“No. Something I’m learning to play. You know it.”

Just as Nick picks out enough notes of the melody that it’s beginning to sound like a memory, Harry starts singing.

 _But I carry this feeling_  
_When you walked into my house_  
_That you won't be walking out the door_

He pauses, stares pointedly at Nick.

 _Still I carry this feeling_  
_When you walked into my house_  
_That you won't be walking out the door_

Harry stops again abruptly.

“Go on,” Nick encourages him. “You want I should sing the harmony?”

“Sure,” Harry laughs. “You should sing the harmony. I was just gonna mention… That shawl you’re wearing, Stevie gave it to me. Said she thinks it’s from Wembley, like, in the 80’s.”

Nick jumps up like he’s been goosed, like he’s eight years old and been caught sitting on the company-only sofa back in Oldham.

Harry begins to play again and Nick can’t help himself, doesn’t even try. Nick’s never been too cool to show when he loves something, so he begins to slowly spin. He spins in wobbly, uneven circles around the centre of the room with his arms held out, the shawl floating from them like sparkling, fringed blackbird wings, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, a big smile on his face, utterly blissed out, singing a loud tone-deaf harmony that Harry tries desperately to adapt the melody to match. Nick’s quite certain he’s never sounded better in his life, not even in the huge shower at that posh resort in the Maldives.

 _I need you to love me_  
_I need you today_  
_Give to me your leather_  
_Take from me my lace_  
_Take from me my lace_

Nick spins a few beats longer than Harry plays, comes to a standstill, dizzy and euphoric, wraps the shawl tightly around himself and concentrates hard for a second to make a memory of it.

“Hey Nick?”

“Hmmm?”

Harry nods towards a vase on the piano. “Do you like these flowers I put in here?”

Nick works hard to refocus. “Who doesn’t fancy a rose?”

“Yeah, but Nick?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you know what’s even better than having roses on your piano?”

“No.”

“C’mon, say it right. I’m going to start over.”

“‘kay.”

“Nick?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Do you know what’s even better than having roses on your piano?”

“No.”

_“Nick!”_

“All right, all right. Ask me again.”

“Hey Nick?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Do you know what’s even better than having roses on your piano?”

“No.”

_“Nick! Do it right!”_

“Okay okay okay. Don’t pout. Let’s have it.”

“Nicholas?” Harry asks, giving him a death glare.

“Yes, Harold?”

“Do you know what’s even better than having roses on your piano?”

“I don’t know, Harry. What’s even better than having roses on your piano?”

“Having tulips on your organ,” Harry says, clearly delighted with himself.

“Whaaat?”

“Having tulips on your organ. Get it? Two. Lips. On your _organ?_ Ha Hawww! _Hee hee hee_ ha ha hawww!”

Harry collapses into an undignified giggle fit and a big laugh gurgles out of Nick before he can help himself. He doesn’t really even want to help himself. He puts his head down on the piano and lets go. He’s so going to tell that joke all over London.

“That’s _my_ joke,” Harry admonishes him, as if he can read his thoughts. “Don’t go telling it on Radio or to everybody we know, like last time, and the time before that, and all the other times.”

“Never.”

“Git.”

Nick’s sigh is half laugh and entirely too fond. He walks over and collapses back down onto the sofa. Harry comes to sit too, and snugs himself up close to Nick again, focuses on the telly. It’s the wedding scene, and Nick knows that Harry enjoys a good wedding and he especially seems to be enjoying the wedding singer’s version of Elvis Presley’s ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’.

“That girl can sing,” Harry observes and begins to sing along. “But I…can’t…help, falling in love with you. Like a river flows…surely to the sea…”

Nick’s just getting into it when Harry stiffens.

“Hey, where’s all the water coming from? Wait a minute! She’s wading through fucking water! Her wedding dress is going to be ruined.” Harry’s appalled at the crime upon fashion. “Who does that? This is the most ridiculous wedding scene ever. Now I can’t even enjoy the rest of the song.”

Nick sighs and gives up on the film, thumbs the remote. Harry’s always had rules about what he will and won’t watch and Nick can’t be arsed to argue them anymore. They sit there in silence for a minute or thirty, Nick’s not sure, both of them staring at the blank screen. Finally, Nick raises his arms over his head, yawns and stretches and rolls his neck, and his spine pops loudly in several places.

“Ungh. I could do with a massage before my meeting. Will you help me find a place in the morning?”

He’s apparently hit Harry’s ANIMATE button again, because Harry lights up immediately, grabs Nick by the wrist and tugs him up off the sofa, even though Nick could stay sat here perfectly well all day.

“Allow me!”

And Nick, of course, allows him, because…Harry.


	8. Stockholm Syndrome

_ Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.   Oscar Wilde _

Harry pulls Nick, stumbling, to the lift, presses 3. Nick’s already imagining flinging himself on top of Harry’s duvet and settling in for a nice long back rub, but Harry abandons Nick in the lift with a stern order to hold the door for him and then dashes into his bedroom. Alarm bells sound in Nick’s head, and it takes him more than a second to realise they’re actually coming from the lift, the door bumping steadily against his palm and protesting its lack of closure. Tell me about it, Nick thinks, but his mind races on and he wishes he had his iPhone so he could record the beat to use later, the shrill treble of the ringing alarm, the rhythmic bass of the thumping door, and he’s nearly got it mixed with just the right song in his head when Harry returns, ruining everything in Nick’s opinion, until he notices Harry’s brandishing an expensive looking bottle of body oil, and Nick’s always been easily distracted by the sight of any sort of slick that promises to come in contact with his body. Harry presses 4 and a few seconds later Nick’s blinking in the sunlight like a mole just come up out of his hole.

Harry steps out of the lift, Nick doesn’t, and Harry reaches back in and takes him by the wrist again.

“C’mon out, you git. You wasted?”

“Me? Nahhh,” he denies, but his bubbling laugh tells Harry something different. Nick blinks in the sunshine, longs for his sunglasses and watches as Harry strips a long navy cushion from a sun lounger and places it in the middle of the stone slab dining table. Between Harry assaulting him with a ping pong ball earlier today and attempting to drown him in the endless pool yesterday, Nick’s not so sure he’s quite safe up here, this place might be where Grimshaws go to die. Nick feels less than in charge of his fate and he’s not usually paranoid, but…okay, well, he is usually paranoid, but then again, he’s been right often enough, hasn’t he?

“Strip off, then.”

A shiver runs up and down his spine, which… Nick’s pretty much only ever resisted that order when he’s having his annual, so he strips off, and the sun feels surprisingly warm on his skin. He looks down and the hairless bits of him are covered in tiny prisms of coloured light, like he’s a human disco ball, and would you look at that? There’s orange and yellow and green and-

“Nick?” Harry laughs, taking his hand. “Up you go.”

Nick clambers a bit awkwardly up onto the table and settles onto his stomach on the cushion, closes his eyes. Harry’s been known to give a decent enough back rub and Nick’s back really does ache, maybe not as much as he’s been putting on, but still, he’s up for it. Harry takes off his rings and moves to the head of the table, and Nick feels fat drops of oil splatter onto his back. Harry’s never been one to scrimp on product. Nick’s slowly enveloped by one of the many good smells he associates with Harry’s skin. This one’s got something to do with roses and black pepper. He sighs as Harry’s thumbs start circling the nape of his neck, progress slowly up to his hairline, trace around to the back of his ears, and Nick just manages to contain his purr when Harry drags his fingernails up and down Nick’s neck like ten tiny little rakes. The pattern repeats, as slow and methodical as ever, Harry’s thumbs patiently circling his nape, his fingers raking little furrows along his neck, repeating again and yet again, until Nick finally, utterly and completely, relaxes into it. _This. This. This._

“Feels good,” Nick purrs with contentment.

Harry moves on to Nick’s shoulders, takes his time finding and easing the knots slowly away, then moves down one arm, kneads his back methodically down to his hip, back up, back down, quickly moving around the table to repeat on the other side, then continuing on to Nick’s glutes with a much too brief but deep tissue massage without even a trace of seduction or intimacy to it, even though he’s got his hands on Nick’s bare arse and practically in his crack, which used to would’ve been a thing, but now Harry’s just touching him with almost clinical precision, and somehow Nick’s both relieved and disappointed by that, because Nick enjoys things complicated and now that he’s thought of Harry’s fingers in his arse-crack he can’t not think of it, can’t not want it. Harry’s hands slip around Nick’s left upper thigh, spreading more oil, sweeping down, gently stretching the muscles, then on down his calf all the way to his ankle before Harry shifts sides again and makes his way slowly up the other leg until he’s back to Nick’s glutes, where he’s thorough but leaves off massaging before Nick’s had nearly enough and to his dismay, Nick’s arse-crack’s still got no love.

“Roll over.”

Nick wishes there was music, not his usual but the spa kind with wooden flutes and frogs chirping in the rain and shamanic chanting and some kind of Kenny G shit, but Nick’s not got his phone, alas, and Nick misses his Calm app. He misses it very much indeed. The great thing about the Calm app is-

“Nick? You going to roll over or what?”

Nick doesn’t so much roll as shuffle over in inelegant, walrus-like increments, aware that his dick is something just to the ‘not’ side of soft, but Nick’s been bare-arsed on his friends’ instagrams, more than a time or two, been ballsack out at parties and done his share of nude beaches, and Harry’s more than familiar with everything Nick’s got and with the impractical, illogical, ill-timed misconduct of the male genitalia in general, as he’s got his own to contend with, not to mention a bit more than his fair share. Still, Nick finds he has to work to ignore Harry’s lopsided smirk at the sight of his semi, but it’s quickly forgotten because Harry’s holding his foot now, and Nick’s not one to waste a foot rub or a good buzz by overthinking things. He gives himself over to it entirely, groaning as Harry’s thumbs dig into precise trigger points, sending white hot flares and ice cold tingles into seemingly unrelated bits of Nick’s body. He regrets it when Harry’s hands finally slide up one of his calves, but then there’s a thigh being felt up, and Nick prides himself on his thighs and doesn’t mind attention being paid them. Harry works with both hands, firm but brisk, then he’s back down to Nick’s other foot and, too soon, much too soon, working his way up the other leg. Nick’s more than half hard by the time Harry’s back up to his hip, and he’s aware but too relaxed to care. Much. Knows Harry won’t care either. Much.

Nick’s surprised, then, and his breath hitches, when Harry climbs up onto the table and straddles him mid-thigh, although Harry’s bearing most of his own weight. Harry’s smiling down at him, but only with his eyes, there’s not even a telltale crinkle around them, and some people might not recognise it for what it is, but Nick knows all Harry’s smiles by heart, and this one spells trouble. This one says Harry’s inner-demon has taken the wheel and Nick’s in danger.

“Table’s too wide,” Demon-Harry says nonchalantly, oiling his hands again. “Ruins the effect, having to move from side to side.”

Nick’s dick is high on his belly now. As ever, it’s not shy and doesn’t like being left out of a convo. It's bobbing like it's keeping time with some mysterious song in Nick's head, but there's no song in Nick's head, for once, only the steady _'boom boom boom'_ of his own blood throbbing against his eardrums. Harry, the useless wanker, ignores Nick's dancing dick entirely, which…rude. His slick hands are on Nick’s hips, his thumbs simultaneously massaging wide circles, and Nick appreciates the symmetry of it and has to agree that it’s loads better this way, Harry’s weight balanced lightly on Nick’s thighs, the stroke of Harry’s fingers evenly balanced on his hip bones. Harry’s thumbs move in ever-narrowing circles, ever inward, until they dip into the crease of Nick’s groin, disappearing into Nick’s thatch, and begin to massage around the root of him, Harry’s fingers anchored tightly in the flesh of his hips, entirely spanning him, never actually touching his dick, just making firm but tiny circles with his thumbs, ever closer, ever closer, and Nick’s hard now, fully hard, thank fuck his hydraulics still work, not a thing he takes for granted at his age, and he’s not seen one older than his own in a very long while but he takes care of himself and even has one of the girls, whichever one’s handy, check for stray greys before hols so he’s pretty certain he shows well, he’s got no complaints from anyone. Yet.

He opens one eye and peers at Harry, raises an eyebrow in what he hopes translates as mock boredom, but with the uneven remains of his last Botox, he can’t be quite certain, and it might have looked more like a leer. Harry responds by pouring oil onto Nick’s belly, so much oil, begins to slather it in, taking care to be especially gentle in the area around Nick’s welt, and Nick’s stomach and sides have always been ticklish so he snickers and squirms and yelps and Harry’s apparently matured and thankfully moves on. Harry rests a bit more of his weight on Nick’s thighs, moves quickly over his ribcage to his pecs, spreading oil until Nick’s chest hair is a hopelessly matted mess. Harry kneads his shoulders, runs his fingertips over Nick’s jaw, then once, twice, three times around his temples and up, up, straight up into Nick’s hair without warning, his hair, how very dare he, and Nick squeals and bucks and protests and Harry just fists his hair so tightly it stills him. Harry tightens his hold, leans in close, uses his forearms on Nick’s chest to pin him down further still. He’s so close Nick can feel Harry’s breath on his face and his dick’s pressed up against Harry’s stomach when Harry's deep voice rumbles in his ear.

_“Hot."_

_"Oil."_

_"Treatment.”_

Nick’s going down, but not in the sexy way. He’s got that dreaded drowning sensation again and bits of his life flash before his eyes, his halls at Uni, him handing out endless flyers for MTV, his shorn hair on the bathroom floor at his feet, the last time he spoke to his father before he died. Nick can’t catch his breath. It’s as if Harry’s giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, only in reverse, and Harry’s clearly using more than his fair share of the available oxygen and finally, finally, Nick’s survival instincts take over, better late than never, and Nick thrusts out his chin and gives a mental kick.

“It’s not hot,” he informs Harry. “The oil. It’s not hot.”

Harry sits up, looks pointedly at Nick’s erection, cocks a wry eyebrow.

_“Isn’t it?”_

Which… Point.

But now there’s ten long fingers rubbing Nick’s scalp and he loses the desire to complain about oil in his hair, it’ll wash. He loses the desire to complain about anything at all, because it’s hypnotic, Harry’s hands in his hair, he can do this all day, except…

Nick opens his eyes and Harry’s smirk is at once both enigmatic and telling. Nick watches him oil his hands yet again, even though Nick’s already swimming in it and it’s a wonder Harry’s not slid right off him and concussed himself from the fall.

Harry holds his glistening hands up like a surgeon, poised, waiting, eyebrows raised in that annoying Botoxless way Harry has of making expressions with his entire forehead. He doesn’t break eye contact with Nick, just sits there and waits with his tongue caught between his teeth, licking at the corner of his mouth, and looking at Harry’s mouth like that, and the dusky pink of his lips and tongue, Nick’s reminded that his dick’s stood at attention between them like Harry’s the Queen and it’s Trooping the Colour, but the thought of all the things that Harry’s not doing to it makes it get impossibly harder. Nick bucks his thighs and shifts Harry slightly forward and Harry allows it, then rests his full weight on Nick’s thighs for the first time, trapping him, stilling him underneath him, and there it is again, the self-satisfied smirk that says Harry knows just how much Nick still wants him, and more than just a little bit.

Nick, a natural born people pleaser if ever there was one, can also be an obstinate fuck where Harry’s concerned, and despite his throbbing cock and Harry’s slick hands and Harry’s long fingers, his long fucking fingers, Nick decides Harry’ll be sat there in his lap ’til the One Direction reunion if he’s waiting for Nick to ask for it. Nick won’t give him the pleasure of it. Nick won’t give him the power. Nick’s got self-control, hasn’t he? Nick’s got willpower to spare. Nick’s a full grown man. He’s not some horny teenager who’ll-

“Sir?” Harry asks pleasantly. “Do you care for a special?”

_“Jesus! Yes! Fuck yes!”_

Fuck Plan C and The Celibacy, the last was only ever unintentional anyway, and came to an unexpected finish last night. And a man’s entitled to a lost weekend now and again, isn’t he, especially a man with Harry Styles sat in his lap, offering him hand jobs and calling him Sir like he’s been taking sex class on Pornhub.

Harry’s hands are on him, finally, and he’s holding Nick’s cock down and back towards himself, stroking him smoothly, hand over hand, pulling in long, slow upstrokes with one hand following the other in such close succession that it feels like one endless pull, or like Nick’s dick is impossibly long, never-ending, and the feeling goes on and on, speed gradually, thankfully increasing, until Nick’s over-sensitised and the uninterrupted friction of this odd one-direction hand job, ha ha!, is becoming too much, and it’s also not enough, it’s never going to be enough to get him off, when suddenly, Harry stops and squeezes Nick’s cock firmly in one fist and downstrokes over the head, sweet blessed relief, just one perfect, tight, fist’s-length stroke down his cock before starting the slow hand over hand pulling again.

 _“One,”_ Harry rasps.

Nick can’t be arsed to figure out what Harry’s on about, because Harry’s picking up speed again, hand over hand, upstroking him, again and again and again and again, until Nick’s toes curl and his hips buck involuntarily and it tips from comfortably uncomfortable to uncomfortably uncomfortable and Nick wriggles his hips against it as best he can underneath Harry’s weight and Harry grips him in one fist again and properly jerks him twice in quick succession, and for a blissful instant, it’s just what Nick needs.

_“Two.”_

Nick lifts his head and earns only an enigmatic smile as Demon-Harry recommences the upstrokes, hand over hand, one continuous pulling sensation until Nick’s nerves are frayed and he hears the sound of a room full of zippers simultaneously unzipping like it’s 2008 all over again, and he realises it’s his own ten fingernails clawing unsuccessfully for a grip on the tightly woven cushion. If he’s got to make a choice to stop or continue he’s going to have to choose stop, his toes are cramping, and just when he’s about to say so Harry’s fist closes tightly on him again and he jerks him three times, and Nick manages to buck his hips up off the table searching for more but doesn’t get it, his only reward is the increasingly heavy weight of Harry.

_“Three.”_

And that’s when Nick clues that this is something different, and he’s not entirely certain but he has his suspicions and so he waits for it, and the waiting for it makes the upstrokes both better and worse, and when Harry finally flicks his wrist and jerks him, Nick curls into the strokes so much it’s the closest he’s come to doing abdominal crunches since he wanted Frank Ocean to fancy him.

His eyes are wide on Harry’s as they say, in unison,

_“Four.”_

“Jesus, _fuck!”_ Nick adds. Harry’s never done this before, well the hand job, yes, but not like this. Harry’s not got the patience for edging, he’s too self-indulgent, except…

Over and over, hand over hand, slow but steady, it’s got just this side of too much when Harry squeezes and jerks his wrist again, marginally tighter this time, marginally slower this time, really drawing it out. Nick breathily counts out loud, doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, would prefer not to, but Nick’s mouth’s got a penchant for disconnecting from his brain and this is Nick Grimshaw, unplugged.

_“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Fuck!”_

Nick hears himself clawing at the cushion again and it takes him a few seconds to unclench his stomach muscles, to lie down flat, okay, it’s more of a collapse than a lie down, he’ll own it, and Harry’s satisfied husky chuckle isn’t helping. And fuck, it’s right back up another steep hill on the rollercoaster with no time to catch his breath, he’s click click clicking slowly to the crest, and now he’s free falling, feels himself coming off the rails and hopes the scream is only inside his own head.

_“Six.”_

Nick’s moaning consistently now and well past caring. His abs burn. His ears are ringing. His teeth are clenched together so hard he’s reminded it’s time for his dental check. There’s a painful cramp in his big toe and his throat hurts, which is concerning, relative to the scream.

This time Harry counts off alone, his voice low and even, like he’s setting the tempo for a song.

_“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.”_

Nick curls into it with a shout. He’s so close. He opens his eyes and stares up at the sky, and it feels like they’re doing this outdoors, just like Harry promised. He can’t catch his breath. Harry’s hands are on him again, one over another over another in the same direction until Nick wants to scream and his nuts are pulled up so high and tight Nick worries that surgery might be required to retrieve them, he’s heard of that happening, but there’s no time for pondering medical mishaps and mysteries, although he’d like to, but it’ll have to wait because there’s not one single solitary teaspoon of blood flowing to Nick’s brain any longer and Harry’s suddenly gone all out of focus and Nick notices that the sunshine behind Harry’s head is giving him a glowing halo like-

_“Jesus! Fuck!”_

Nick doesn’t make it to eight.

Despite his tented shorts, Harry patiently waits for Nick to gather his wits and come down, entertains himself by smearing cum around Nick’s stomach and thighs like it’s finger paint and twisting the swirls of hair that circle Nick’s belly button and nipples around his fingers. Twist. Pull. Release. When Nick finally signals he’s ready to sit up, Harry swings a leg over him and steps down from the table, adjusts himself with matter-of-fact nonchalance.

“You were carrying a lot of tension. Was that good for you?”

“Fuck’s sake, where’ve you been getting your massages?”

Harry laughs. “I'll take that as a yes.”

“Reckon you're due a tip on that.”

"Stop.”

“I’ll need to borrow some cash off you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“That was…I’ve not got edged by you like that since 2012.”

Harry frowns and responds in sullen monotone, and it’s like the sun’s gone behind a cloud.

“You’ve got me confused with someone else. Me and you weren’t doing it yet in 2012.”

“Exactly.”

“Hunh!” Harry’s all smiles now. He adjusts himself again. “Never thought of it quite like that.”

Rubbish, Nick thinks, you knew. You’ve always known.

Nick doesn’t allow himself to nurse bitterness about it, not right now anyway. He fancies himself a gentleman and turnabout’s fair play in these situations, not like that’s going to be a hardship, but when he offers to reciprocate, Harry surprises him yet again.

“Consider it on the house, my pleasure. Anyway, I’ve got veg to chop or there’ll be no Sunday roast.”

Harry leans in and sweetly kisses him on the lips, soft and dry and entirely, maddeningly indecipherable.

“You should have a few hours to yourself. Rest up and think through your game plan for tomorrow. Feel free to use mine, but mind the oil, eh? Don’t slip in the shower.”


	9. Drown

_ There are only two tragedies in life.One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it._

_Oscar Wilde _

Nick watches in consternation as Harry walks to the lift, watches Harry's smirking face disappear behind its closing door. He stands in stunned silence for a moment, naked and alone, then goes to the outdoor shower and rinses the cum and some of the oil off of his body. He uses his shirt to dry himself off, then gathers his clothes and does as he was told, pads carefully to the lift and then into Harry’s bathroom, where he takes a long hot shower, lets the big glass enclosure fill with steam, rinses away the rest of the oil from his hair and body and stands with his head down in the battering stream of hot water for a long time, feeling the last vestiges of his high ebbing away. It’s been a really good day after all, Nick thinks, despite a bit of rough road to start, and as much as he’d rather be on his knees in the sunroom getting reacquainted with the taste of Harry’s dick, he knows Harry’s right. Nick could do with a few hours to himself to get his head in the game for tomorrow. He cleans his teeth, studies his pores in the mirror and moisturises his face, then notices Harry's chest hair clogging his electric shaver, and it's not the first time Harry's bunged up Nick's razor with body hair, that's for sure, Harry's replaced quite a few of them over the years, each time with a more impressive model, but Nick's never felt the little pang of guilt on account of Harry's bare chest that he feels today. He wraps a flannel around his hips, rummages around in Harry’s bed linens until he locates his sleep mask, then chooses to go back down to the sanctuary of his own room, where he pulls on a clean pair of pants and crawls into bed and crashes, tunelessly humming himself to sleep. There’s loads of time to think about Netflix tomorrow.

Nick’s mellow and loose-limbed and well-rested when he wakes, and he lies there with his mask still on, enjoying the sensory deprivation, not knowing or caring about the time, gets a whiff of Sunday roast baking and imagines Harry fussing about in the kitchen below, trying to make everything just right for him, trying so hard to please him, trying to care for and pamper him.

Nick’s not used to working things out in his head without the input of his friends, even though he mostly ignores it, but this weekend he’s pretty much reconciled himself to the fact that he’s always been in love with Harry, that part of him probably always will be, and he suspects his friends will react with peals of laughter that Nick somehow considers what they’ve known all along to be some sort of epiphany. He’s not clued Harry to it quite yet, that the feelings are still there, some of them at least, and he’s not sure when or even if he ever will or should. For now, he’s enjoying the intensity of the wooing too much, enjoying being the sun and Harry the planet revolving around _him_ for a change, for the length of this lost weekend, at least.

Nick doesn’t believe much in prayer. He’s more of a wish upon a star kind of guy. And he doesn’t believe much in an afterlife either, not exactly, although he likes to think he’ll see his father and Peaches and Puppy and so many others again one day. He does believe in soulmates, though, and he lies there in the dark and wonders if Harry is his. He wonders if it’s possible to have a soulmate but not to be theirs in return, and he doesn’t know the answer, but wouldn’t that be just his luck? Nick also believes in love, and he believes that Harry loves him, in his own unique way, and he knows that Harry means all the things he’s said this weekend and that he’s said all the times before. It’s not that Harry doesn’t mean to keep his promises. Harry always means well, doesn’t he? Nick knows Harry would never lie to him, not intentionally, anyway, not about something like this, but he suspects that Harry might lie to himself if he needs to, in order to survive, in order to keep his own sanity, in order to maintain his belief that he’s just an ordinary person with an extraordinary job and that he doesn’t have to make such great trade-offs for his fame, that he somehow gets to have it all. Harry’s got coping mechanisms of his own, hasn’t he, and Nick doesn’t begrudge him them. Nick’s even helped him build some of them, in the early days, but Nick’s the opposite of Harry in some ways. He’s never once thought he’d get to have it all, for one thing. Nick wishes it were all more easy to sort out, wishes he were stronger and wiser and better at affairs of the heart. Nick wishes that he knew what comes next, that he knew what _should_ come next, for him and Harry. In the false dark behind his sleep mask, Nick wishes upon an imaginary star that he cannot see. He wishes for a sign.

“Nick?” Harry’s tapping quietly at his door, an unusual show of restraint for Harry, who’s often been in Nick’s bed with his tongue in Nick’s ear before Nick’s even known he was back on the same continent.

Nick pulls off his sleep mask and runs his hand through his hair, scrambles to sit up against the pillows.

“Yeah, come in, come in.”

Harry leans into the dimly lit room, silhouetted against the light from the hallway, and Nick realises the sun has mostly gone down whilst he’s slept.

“Dinner’s ready.” Harry comes and sits tentatively on the end of the bed, rests his hand on the lump that’s Nick’s calf underneath the covers. “Y’alright?”

Nick smiles at him, reassuring. “I’m terrific. Never better.” He yawns and stretches. “Room service?”

Harry laughs. “No. I’ve set table and everything. Put some candles out. Roast turned out pretty well.”

“Long time since we’ve had Sunday roast together. Remember that time we all came over to yours and-"

“I’ve got loads of pans now, all matched and everything. Proper adulting going on in my kitchens these days.”

“Kitchens.” Nick shakes his head at the absurdity of it. “How many do you have now? I can count five at least. But you are these days, aren’t you? Proper adulting?”

“I’m trying, Nick.”

“I’m trying too. ’s a bit like work, innit?”

“Sometimes. Not so much anymore. You ready to come down?”

“Sure, sure. You go light your candles and I’ll get dressed and be down in a few.”

Harry’s set the kitchen island with candles and formal service and even decanted the wine, and they linger over their meal, then enjoy coffee and pudding, content and companionable and relaxed. When the washing up’s done and everything put neatly away, Harry blows out the candles, opens the island drawer and takes out their phones, sets all three of them in a row on the counter, and Nick finds himself staring at them like they’re the enemy. For a while this evening he’s quite forgot their bet, been in the moment with Harry and not missed his iPhone at all, but there she suddenly is, beckoning him, and there are Harry’s two, and Nick senses that the weekend’s coming to an end all too soon, before anything’s been resolved, and long before he’s had his fill of Harry’s company and attention, and he’s much less eager at the prospect of having his phone back and reconnecting with the outside world than he’d anticipated.

They decide without conferring to forego the sofa and spend the rest of the evening comfortably ensconced in the middle of Harry’s bed, their phones waiting on their respective bedside tables for the last few hours to pass and their bet to be at an end. Nick’s content that it’ll be a draw, no winner or loser. They cuddle companionably, nothing more, like old marrieds, Nick thinks, and chat quietly through a film and then through a few episodes of Queer Eye, both of them a bit more subdued than usual, before Nick finally asks

“Have we made it the 48 hours yet? I really should check my email, make sure everything’s still on schedule for tomorrow. What if they’ve tried to ring me and got no answer? I can’t afford to fuck this up.”

Harry peers at the digital clock on the cable box. “Hey! We’ve gone almost two hours over! We did it!” He puts his fist out to be bumped.

Nick obliges, grinning. “Thank fuck!”

“I could go longer.”

“I can’t. Bet’s over and civilisation needs me.”

“Go ahead, then, you go first. But I do want to point out that it’s you needing to check in on your career stuff, not me needing to check in on mine. That’s what’s happening here, just let it be said, for the record.”

Nick thumbs his phone on, hopes his battery has held its charge. He doesn’t even look up.

“Yeah yeah yeah, but I’ve got massive thing happening and you’re essentially on hols, so… pfft. Okay, meeting’s still on for tomorrow afternoon. Let’s see. Aimee wants to know why we’ve gone all Stockholm Syndrome and does she need to dispatch Ian to come and get me. There’s loads of pics of the dogs. And...and...”

Nick stutters to a stop, and he suddenly can’t feel his face or his fingers or his toes because…

_What the holy fuck?_

He turns to Harry, all the colour drained from his face.

“You dropped a single.”

Harry feigns surprise. “I did?”

Nick holds his phone up in front of Harry’s nose as evidence.

“Oh! Yeah. I did.”

Nick’s voice is utterly disbelieving. “You never did.”

Harry’s dimples are so deep Nick’s sure they’re sucking all the light from the room, or maybe Nick’s just going blind.

“I did.”

_“Harry Styles! You did not!”_

“Except…I did.”

Nick looks back down at his phone, trying to process the fact that Harry’s dropped a single straight out of nowhere, apparently done so on Friday night, just an hour or so after they’d turned off their phones, and Harry’s been stuck here playing house with Nick for two full days since then in a total vacuum, without getting the slightest bit of gen on how his new music’s been doing, and he’s not shown any anxiety over it, no signs at all, just stalked Nick up and down the house relentlessly, trying to work things out with him, trying to fuck things out with him, trying so very hard to please.

Nick can’t speak. His lips have gone numb. He’s got some of the feeling back in his thumbs at least, and he’s pawing relentlessly at his phone, navigating quickly around the internet, jumping from site to site, still suspecting that this is some elaborately staged hoax, but everywhere he looks just confirms that it’s true. He looks back up at Harry, eyes wide.

“But…you’ve not posted the white squares or anything, nothing to announce.”

“No. The white squares, those were actually more to acknowledge major turning points in my life, career related, yes, but more about being free to do my own thing and not really about specific music promo. It was misinterpreted.”

“Hunh. You never said. Harry, I’m…I’m absolutely _gobsmacked,_ I mean, I can’t believe you’ve been sat here all weekend with me when you’ve got new music out to promote.”

“More important things needed my attention. My undivided attention.”

“But it was just a silly bet. I’d never have-”

“Fuck the stupid bet. I gave you my word.”

“You... I... Oh my god, Harry, how’d you even?”

“Don't be thick, Nick. I made you a promise and I meant it. I don’t know how else-"

“No, you idiot, the surprise drop. How’d you manage it?”

“It was all set to go. That’s what me and Jeff were texting about, when you…you know. And I could have pulled the plug on it, waited, I guess, but I sent that one last text to Jeff and told him I was going to take my shot, try to work things out with you, and to launch without me and I’d check in next week.”

“You just…just like that? What’d he say?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs. “I turned my mobile off immediately after. But he obviously went ahead with it like I asked. Good to know.”

“I can’t believe…”

Harry grins at him. “I can show you proof, the actual texts, when I turn my phone back on. I didn’t cancel any appearances or anything. No one knew it was coming. I hate a fucking leak. I was just going to do some impromptu things, this weekend and next week, after the fact.”

Nick’s still staring at Harry like he’s sprouted two heads, and Harry scoots over and nestles up against him, tries to look over his shoulder and see what’s on Nick’s phone.

“So…how’s it done?”

Harry’s feigning casual interest, but Nick knows he must be bloody mad with the not knowing. Nick knows more than a fair share of musicians, knows them all too well, and they’re all pretty much navel-gazing narcissists prone to obsess about how their music is received, both critically and by fans, not to mention how it performs financially. They’re insufferable for days, weeks, some of them months even before and after new music’s released, as if they were going to live and die by the charts, and Nick himself is not one to minimise the importance of music in the world, is he? And Harry’s no different from any other artist, except… Nick still can’t quite wrap his head around it.

“C’mon. Don’t keep me in suspense. How’m I doing?”

Nick manages to shake off his surprise, looks at Harry somberly, lays a bolstering kiss to his forehead, then clears his throat and begins to read from his phone.

“Billboard says ‘Harry Styles’ Surprise Single Fails to Chart.’”

Harry stiffens beside him, takes a sharp breath and blows it out very slowly. “Hunh,” he says quietly. He takes another impossibly deep breath. “Hunh.”

Nick watches him process it, lets it fully sink in before he continues.

“Pitchfork says ‘Former 1D Frontman Flops on Second Outing.’ At least it’s well-alliterated, that one, and acknowledges you as frontman. And hey, that's just clickbait. I’m sure song’s not as bad as all that.”

Harry takes another very deep breath and slowly blows it out. He’s got one hand buried in his hair and he’s pulling at his bottom lip with the other, and for once in his life, Nick observes, he’s blinking very fast. “Okay, well, this…this is not…as hoped.”

Nick quickly continues. “Rolling Stone’s Rob Sheffield had this to say. ‘Harry Styles’ Sophomore Effort... um..." Nick stalls.

"What?"

"Sophomoric.”

Beside him, Harry audibly gasps, closes his eyes and is absolutely still for a few beats. Then he rolls over and peers closely at Nick’s face, bathed in pale pink neon light, and suddenly he’s all sparkling eyes and dimples.

_“No, he didn’t! Rob Sheffield never did say that! He loves me! You’re taking the piss.”_

And Nick can’t help it, he breaks into gurgling fits of throaty laughter, and Harry’s instantly on him, a whirling dervish of punches and tickles and elbows and knees and head butts until Nick somehow manages to catch both his wrists and subdue him.

“No punches, no punches! I’ve still got important meeting tomorrow!”

Harry settles down laid half on top of him, still giggling and grinning from ear to ear. Nick pretends to consult his phone again over Harry's shoulder.

“Oh, look! Matt Bellassi’s tweeted ya. ‘Happy Poseur Rockstar Day, to Harry Styles only.’”

They’re both giggling helplessly now, Nick’s sides hurt with it, his best laughs have always been with Harry, but finally, as if on cue, they both simultaneously fall quiet, Harry’s legs still tangled with his, Harry’s head tucked snugly into his neck.

“How’d I really do?"

Nick’s prouder than he has any right to be, and he doesn’t even try to disguise it in his voice.

“Looks like song’s gone #1 on iTunes, both UK and US and a whole handful of minors. Do you want me to give you the numbers? Although for fuck’s sake, you don’t release on Friday night if you’re all that concerned with early numbers. Looks like there’s talk it might even have a shot for the Hot 100s Top 10 in the next week or so. Not that you care.” Nick’s tone changes to fond mockery. “ _Oh-ohhh,_ look at me, I’m Harry Styles, solo artist. Got loads too much artistic integrity to pander to radio play, haven’t I? Right up until me new hit single.”

“Stop it,” Harry laughs. “It’s not like that. It’s getting decent radio play though? Really?” Harry’s up on one elbow now, beaming down at him, and he looks so relieved, like he’s actually had his doubts, and Nick’s struck again that Harry’s gone the whole weekend without knowing anything.

“Looks like,” Nick says, brushing Harry's fringe out of his eyes fondly, and Harry leans down and kisses him then, fast and fierce, happiness and relief radiating off of him, and then he drops onto his back, shoulder to shoulder next to Nick, staring at the ceiling with a big goofy smile on his face.

“Is there an album coming?" Nick asks. "Or is this a one-off?”

“There’s an album. It’s already done. Twelve songs. All rock solid, I think. And a tour.”

“Soon?” Nick’s pitch is an unaccustomed octave, a tuneless squawk even to his ears. Everything suddenly feels very real, like the future is suddenly upon him and anything is possible.

Harry rolls to his side and props his head on his fist, his expression serious. He looks at Nick and doesn’t blink.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“You. On your decisions. If you’re interested in booking and producing my tour guests. If you want to come on tour with me finally, or if you need to be here or back home to do your series. And also if it’s better for you to not have your brand so closely associated with mine. That’s got to be carefully thought through to your benefit. And at some point, you’ve got to decide if we’re friends-only from here on out, which is still pretty terrific, or if you’re willing to try to work things out with me…if you still want something more. I’ve made it pretty clear how I feel.”

Nick doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he could if he tried. Harry, of course, presses on.

“Album’s scheduled to release in about another month, and I can’t very well move my stuff up, but I can move it all back, the album, the tour, even a good way back, if necessary, like I said, I’ve got more control. I can work with Columbia and postpone it if you want, if you need me to, wait until you’ve finished the first season of your series-"

“First season,” Nick laughs, his hands carding through his hair. “Since when did a handful of episodes become seasons?” He’s not going to lie, though. He quite likes the sound of that.

“-or not tour the album at all even. There’s all sorts of options. We can do whatever we decide works best for both of us.”

Nick’s sat up straight in bed now and is literally pulling his hair.

“Stop! Stop! Oh my god. Shut up! This is too much. You want a hundred decisions from me and you’re talking nonsense about not going on tour if we can’t coordinate our fucking schedules, and I didn’t even know a tour was happening at all until two minutes ago and this is bloody _mad_. I’m still gobsmacked you released new music without letting me hear it first, and then went all weekend without knowing how it was doing. And me now the only DJ on the planet who hasn’t heard it, and obviously not got first play. Who did? Were you recording promo in London? Was that why you were there and didn’t tell me? And the song! Is it rock, folk rock, rap, country, electronic, popera? A ballad, a bop, a banger? Is it a collab? Did Ronson work on it with you? I can’t believe you’ve not said anything!”

Nick realises he’s babbling like an idiot, but his heart’s hammering and he somehow can’t stop himself.

“And you over there going on about us being something more than friends, when truth is I don’t even know if I’ll find you attractive any longer until after I’ve heard it! Could hate it, you know. Put me off you once and for all. Let me just… Jesus Fuck! There’s a video. Oh my god, you idiot, what’re you wearing? Not much, looks like. Not gonna lie, looks good on you. Stupid thing’s buffering… Wait! No! It’s too much all at once. I have to just listen to the song first. Watch the video later, and not on this tiny shite screen. You’ll have to queue it up on the telly. I can’t…I can’t…I think I’m hyperventilating. _Harry! It’s the best song I’ve never heard!”_

Harry’s been chuckling happily beside him all the while, and now he pulls Nick back down to the mattress, rolls over him, his body laid heavily half over Nick’s, trapping Nick underneath him, which feels pretty terrific but isn’t helping with Nick’s hyperventilation situation at all. Nick wonders if he’s remembered to pack his puff puff or if he'll need to borrow Harry's.

Harry’s serious again now, his face is flushed in the pink glow. “It’s just a song. We’ll have a drive across the Hudson later and you can listen to it, but first, there’s something I’ve been waiting for the right time to do.”

Harry sits up against the bed pillows, reaches for his own phone and thumbs it on, immediately silences the notifications and scowls at it and fusses about for a few interminably long minutes without speaking or looking up. Then his thumb hovers for another long moment over the keyboard, and Harry finally looks over at Nick and smiles an enigmatic little smile.

"You still follow me, right?"

Nick snorts. As if he could ever summon the strength to unfollow Harry.

“Watch this.”

Harry thumbs a key with a tiny flourish.

Nick’s phone immediately alerts, and Nick sees that Harry has updated his Instagram with a new photograph for the first time in ages. It’s just one tightly cropped word in Harry’s own handwriting, captured in pale pink neon and set against a grey suede wall and surely, to most of the world, entirely nonsensical, but not to Nick, who at least recognises what he's looking at.

_**EASE?** _

Nick’s heart stops. He’s pretty sure he’s expected to say something, but long before he can put thoughts together to speak, to form questions or even blink, his phone alerts again and his heart starts beating again with a vengeance. Harry’s updated his Instagram again.

**_ME, PL_ **

And almost immediately again, Nick’s phone notifies him that Harry’s updated his Instagram a third time in a row, an unprecedented flurry of activity, and Nick’s hands are shaking so hard he can barely focus on the new photograph.

_**LOVE** _

And just like that, Harry’s Instagram is lined up perfectly once again, a cryptic, triptych pink neon love note for all the world to see and analyse and surely over-analyse…a sign. A literal neon sign.

_**LOVE ME, PLEASE?** _

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182258842@N03/48147743201/in/dateposted-public/)

Nick’s struck by what a surreal life he’s living, with Harry here beside him, with Harry’s love note to him hung on the wall overhead and bathing them in its benevolent pink glow. Nick stares at his phone and tries to identify how he feels.

_He feels…?_

He feels like he’s got Harry’s heart held right in the palm of his hand, a sign within a sign within a sign. Nick knows, deep in his soul, that Harry’s signaled the beginning of a new era in his life just as clearly as the white squares ever did, and he wonders how long they’ll have alone together before their friends and Harry’s fans figure out what it all means.

Both their phones are lighting up like Harrods at Christmas Eve. Not long then.

Nick finally looks up from his phone, watches as Harry thumbs his own phone off again without even looking, sets it firmly aside, lies back down and turns to Nick with eyes wide and watchful and hopeful and afraid, all at the same time. Nick wordlessly follows suit, turns off his phone, sets it aside. Harry rolls into him then, hovers over him, eyes huge and green and earnest in the warm pink glow. Nick can feel Harry’s heartbeat, and he listens for his own, realises their hearts are actually beating in rhythm, his and Harry’s. They’re finally in sync.

“Nick.”

Harry kisses him ever-so-gently, like Nick’s precious to him, like this moment’s precious to him. Nick tries to hold it back, but it’s all been too much, all the ups and the downs, all Harry's comings and goings, all their break-ups and their make-ups and all these years that have led to this weekend, this very moment. He feels one hot embarrassing tear leak from the corner of his eye and trickle down the path of a crow’s foot, hears Harry whisper his name and feels him press his lips gently against Nick’s cheek to catch the tear.

“I love you. I’m in love with you, Nick. Please love me back again. Love me, _please?”_

And there it is...

The familiar feeling that Nick’s drowning.

He’s drowning again in Harry.

He’s drowning once and for all like it’s his destiny.

Nick’s life flashes before his eyes...

This time, his future.

And he doesn’t kick against it.

He doesn’t kick at all.

Nick allows himself to drown.

And to be drowned.

 


End file.
